The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune
by Merry Grace
Summary: What happens if two wizards' blood mingles in the forging of a Life Debt? HGSS AU This was written for the 50 Art of Words Challenge. This story deals with mature themes. Some language, sex and violence: a little of each.
1. To Be Or Not To Be Chapter 1

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune

There was a harvest moon in the sky, illuminating the brilliant night. Even the stars seemed closer than usual. It was also very chilly, however, everyone in Hogsmeade was asleep, wrapped in their warm blankets for the night.

Everyone except the man who made a determined, though erratic, path to the gates of Hogwarts.

"Another drink," he mumbled, lifting the half-empty bottle of Firewhisky to his lips.

_Flashes of light – _

"No…"

_Chunks of earth exploding..._

"Fuck," he slurred.

_Snake shooting at his neck! – _

"Come on, you shtupid liquor!" the man yelled, upending the bottle into his esophagus. After rising from his fall, the natural consequence of swallowing seven ounces of Firewhisky at once, the man resumed his bourn to the looming castle.

A hissing from the wall sconce's flame in the library wakened a grateful Hermione Granger from her uneasy slumber. Sleep was not something Hermione enjoyed anymore. She assumed there was something about epic battles, blood and death which did that to a person.

Stretching out her creaky joints, Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying out. The Cruciatus had left her nervous system damaged, she feared, beyond repair. Now her joints felt like that of an eighty-year-old witch. And it didn't help that…she shook her head. Now was not the time to think of that. Sometimes she wondered when it would be the time, but that thought just made her crazier.

Sighing shakily, she put her head in her hands as she scooted to the edge of the armchair. Her parents had taught her their Muggle deep-breathing exercises they had learned in La Maze. Perhaps she should utilise those now.

"AGH!"

Hermione's head shot up, a twinge of pain running the entire length of her spine as she did so. Who was that? It was a man's voice. Drawing her wand from the pocket of her jeans, she slipped off her shoes quietly and trod, sock-footed, through the bookshelves, making as little noise as possible.

As she drew closer to the main entrance, she heard mumbling. She paused. Drunk mumbling. She paused again. Cursing, drunk mumbling.

"Fuckin' Albus Dumbledore…bloody Machiavelli…damn you…makin'…me…Lily...fuckin' 'Arry Potter…Bloody…"

There was no denying it any longer. Even smashed to the gills, there was no mistaking the dulcet tones of Severus Snape.

Wasn't he supposed to still be at St. Mungo's?

Lowering her wand, yet feeling her heart speed up, Hermione stepped quietly out into the open, approaching her…was he still her professor?

He was standing in front of Madam Pince's desk, shuffling papers around with the palm of one hand, and holding a bottle of Firewhisky in his other. Hermione, without drawing her wand again, tightened her grip on it. Why would Professor Snape be wearing Muggle clothes? He _was_ supposed to still be in the hospital. Why was he utterly pissed off his head in the Hogwarts library?

She came up behind, giving a good ten feet of space between them. "P-Professor?"

It would have to be that bushy headed altruist who found him. It couldn't be Poppy or Minerva or someone who might actually do something useful or who could be reasoned with to let him finish himself off.

"Miss Granger," he said, grandly, then stumbled.

"Professor, I think perhaps we had better…"

"You think too much," he snapped. "If you would be so good as to allow me to finish my sentensh…my sentence…it's possible we shall get on rather better."

There was a pause, while he concentrated on not swaying.

"Professor?"

"Always interrupting," he snapped again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I intend to enjoy the remainder of my drunkenness alone," he snarled.

Unfortunately for the former professor of Hogwarts, there was a table situated rather inconveniently in his way, which, if the library hadn't been so dark, or perhaps if he just hadn't been so drunk, he would have noticed. The library was dark, however, and he was _quite_ drunk and consequently fell into Hermione, who grabbed his emaciated biceps and gasped as they careened into the many chairs and tables in their way.

Severus' brain exploded.

Hermione's brain exploded.

Everything was fuzzy…he couldn't tell what was going on. Nagini had just bitten him, of that he was certain. The numbing effects of the poison would soon fade and leave him in excruciating agony, of that he was also certain. Lily…no, Harry. Lily! No…Hermione. Pain…pain…pain, _pain, pain, PAIN!_

Hermione was thrown back as if it were happening again. The memories…the battle…Harry dead, then alive…going back to find Snape…feeling his pulse…panicking…attempting to suck the poison from his neck….spitting it out…feeling the vial in his coat pocket…pouring it down his throat. She had called for help, then, as exhausted as if she hadn't slept her whole life, she lay down next to her most hated professor and let a few warm tears trickle down her dirty face.

Severus was suddenly completely sober.

"Damn," he muttered. "What the deuce, girl, let go of me."

"Sorry," she whispered, releasing her death grip and rubbing her temples. "What was that?"

Wandering back to where he had dropped his bottle of Firewhisky, he asked sourly, "What was what?"

Sounding irritated, Hermione rejoined, "You know bloody well what. Come to think on it, why are out of the hospital? And wearing Muggle clothes?"

"Why are you out of the hospital and wearing Muggle clothes?"

"Because I'm – I asked you first!"

He sighed heavily. He no longer had the energy to be irritated. He just wanted to go to his chambers and sleep, if he could.

"I exited the hospital without the doctor's written consent and I am wearing Muggle clothes because they were the first ones I found."

"But you have to go back, you…"

"I have to do nothing of the sort," he snapped. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Miss Granger, I am rather tired. As it seems my plan of drinking myself into oblivion has been foiled, my next recourse shall be a Sleeping Draught. I would suggest you do the same. Good even, Miss Granger."

"But Sn – Professor…"

Sighing, he turned back. "Yes?'

"Did – didn't they tell you what happened?"

He debated lying. "Yes, they did. Good night."


	2. That Is The Question

That Is The Question

That Is The Question

Chapter 2

"Hermione? What's the matter, dear?" A very sleepy Madam Pomfrey held her lit wand to illumine Hermione's face.

"I'm sorry, Madam, I wouldn't have disturbed you, but…but…"

After watching Hermione shuffle her feet, cross and uncross her arms, and look everywhere but at Poppy's face, Poppy finally reached out an arm to put around Hermione's shoulders and ushered her into her chambers.

After lighting the room, Poppy gently pushed Hermione onto a thickly-cushioned claw-footed chair and set about making tea in her own little kitchen, waiting for Hermione to begin.

"I was in the library," Hermione began, as she slowly started to lose the tension which had been gripping her. "I was in the library and - well…I heard someone and it turned out to be Professor Snape and…well, I'm not going to deceive you, he was totally pissing drunk."

The vulgar euphemism seemed to exorcise the rest of the constraint in Hermione. She slumped in the chair and sighed, exhausted.

"I have absolutely no idea what he's doing here," she said. Poppy handed her a cup of tea. She cupped her hands around its warmth as she continued unraveling her confusion and worry. "I know for a fact he's still supposed to be in St. Mungo's, because I talked to the Healers before they discharged me, and they said it would be a long while before he was up and about again."

"Severus is still in the castle, then?" Poppy asked, her brows creased.

"Yes, he said he was going to bed."

"Good, then, we needn't worry about him again until morning," she said dismissively and sipped her tea. "Go on, dear."

"Well…I'm not really sure what else there is to say." She paused. Poppy waited. "I don't know, I mean I'm obviously worried about him…physically…but…well you know that I…that I…"

"Saved his life?"

Hermione exhaled gratefully. "Well, yes. There's that and also…there's also another matter…which…which…well, it's quite delicate, you could say…"

"Hermione," Poppy said, firmly, looking her in the eyes, "you have assisted me wonderfully in the past few weeks, with St. Mungo's overflowing with patients and the extra ones they've sent here…well, it's been a nightmare. However, you have handled the stress with the maturity and grace of someone much older than yourself. I have learnt to trust you a great deal. I hope you have learned to trust me as well. If you should choose to entrust me with anything, I promise that trust shan't be misplaced."

Hermione smiled mistily, attempting to cover her sentiment by taking a sip of Poppy's spice tea.

"Thank you." She paused. "After Harry and Ron and I found out that Snape - I mean, Professor Sna-"

"That's quite all right, dear."

Hermione giggled. "When we found out that he had been a double agent _against_ Voldemort all that time…and that…well, that he…"

"That he loves Harry's mother?"

Hermione gaped. "You knew?"

"I know many things about Severus," said Poppy as she sipped her tea.

Hermione shook her head, assimilating the new information. "Yes…as I was saying, when we found out…well, to be quite frank, it shook a world that was already shaking violently. I felt horribly guilty for thinking so badly of him all those years and I didn't know what to do…All I knew was that a man who…who had…done that…musn't…ought not…to…to die like that! It was…it was terribly, fiercely _wrong_!" She attempted to still her shaking, and wiped her face with her sleeve. Poppy moved to the chair beside her, taking her hand.

Hermione continued. "When I found the vial, I was so…so relieved that…I felt suddenly so tired that I…I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember was waking up in St. Mungo's…"

Poppy got up, replaced her own cup in the kitchen and refilled Hermione's own cup with the soothing spice tea. Sitting down again, she peered into Hermione's face, as she took a long, slurping sip.

"The…the Healer told me…after I woke up…I remember he had the strangest look on his face…Well, it was a million to one shot that it could have happened. But it did. It did happen. In the process of…of saving his life, our blood mixed. I had quite a few wounds myself and, well there you have it."

"Dear, Severus…he has not communicated a disease to you?"

"Oh, Lord, no! No, nothing quite so…Well, in short, the Healer said that it may be possible that we have created a…a Lifebond."

" A Lifebond?"

"I had never heard of it, either. That's what I was trying to find in the library tonight. Apparently, it's very rare. I'm hoping that that hasn't happened with… with Snape and me…but…but I think it has. Except it might not have, because how would I know what that would even feel like?"

"Do they have no magical tests for this sort of thing?" Poppy said indignantly.

"Well, according to the Healer, the last medical record of a Lifebond occurred in 1528." Poppy smiled as Hermione began to sound like herself again. "The mixing of blood and the actual moment of salvation have to occur roughly within 3.33 milliseconds of each other. In addition, there has to be some sort of communication between both subjects, in order for the bond between their respective magicks to arrive."

"Did the Healer say anything about the likelihood of the two of you having created a Lifebond?"

Hermione looked down at her tea. "He said that none of their testing apparatus could possibly show anything other than the fact that it appeared that the magical properties of both Snape's and my blood have altered…somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"A bit."

"A bit?"

"Dramatically, was what he actually said," Hermione relayed in a small voice, apparently trying to shrink into her tea.

"Well, Poppy? How may I assist you?" Severus Snape drawled.

"You may assist me, by sitting down and eating precisely everything on this plate," replied the older woman, pushing him forward to the chair in her office.

"I have already partaken of breakfast," Severus said silkily, looking down at her underneath his heavy eyelids.

"Oh, you have in fact _eaten_?"

He glowered.

"We can have this silent debate of wills as long as you want, Severus."

Silently, he sat and slowly began to eat the eggs in front of him, clearly showing his distaste.

"It's true, Severus," Poppy said, going around to the other side of her desk. "Breakfast is not just coffee." She sniffed. "And it is _certainly_ not brandy!"

"I had a headache," he said, blandly.

"Hm…I wonder why," she said, pursing her lips and raising her brows.

He smirked and slid his fork from between his lips smoothly.

"That's quite a trick," Poppy said, dryly. "Now, Severus, we have other matters to discuss."

He swallowed. "Such as?"

"Such as the matter of a brilliant young woman to whom you may or may not have recently contracted a Lifebond."

He choked.

"There are worse things, Severus."

He wiped his mouth and sneered. "Very true. I suppose I could have contracted a Lifebond to a Blast-ended Skrewt."

"Severus," Poppy said, sharply.

"Very well," he said, silkenly.

"Just so," she replied, primly. Getting to the point of their tete-a-tete, Poppy added, "The two of you must talk. Hermione!"

Hermione entered, quietly.

"Please attempt to behave like an adult, Severus," Poppy said and exited.

It was just like Poppy to leave him alone in what promised to be deucedly uncomfortable situation.

"Well, Miss Granger," Severus said, consciously taking Poppy's chair behind the desk, straightening the sleeve of the robes he had obtained from the house elves. "Are you also of the opinion we should discuss this tragedy which has befallen us?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione said bravely, consciously standing beside the desk. "I do."

"Very well, then."

Hermione fidgeted.

"Sometime this century, Miss Granger."

"Oh, you're quite busy, are you?" Hermione said, tartly.

Severus glowered, biting back the urge to subtract points from Gryffindor. "Shall we spar, or shall we talk?" he inquired slowly.

"I believe talking might be a better use of our time," Hermione agreed. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Well, let's get right down to it, then," Hermione sighed. "The Healer said there was a dramatic change in the magical properties of our blood, but that's all they know. Have you felt anything different?"

"Not markedly," he said succinctly.

"Neither have I…at least…no, not markedly."

He ignored her hesitation. "I suggest we do our best to live without each other."

She blinked. "Oh…yes…Yes, why don't we do that?"

"The matter is settled, then." He stood and bowed. "Miss Granger."

As he exited the room, he could feel her heave a sigh of relief. He smirked bitterly.


	3. Whether 'Tis Nobler

Whether 'Tis Nobler…

Whether 'Tis Nobler…

Chapter 3

_1 year later_

Hermione stood just outside the ivy laden brick wall, which served as a fence, and which, Hermione privately thought, indicated a serious subconscious need of self-defence.

She looked around, at the vast expanse of unearthly green hills and wrapped her soft, grey wool sweater closer round her shoulders, pondering back at the events of the past year which had brought her to this place.

She had been relieved to hear Snape's surprisingly simple suggestion – that they live without each other. It sounded easy enough. Why make things more difficult or complicated than they had to be?

_The 1__st__ Quarter_

Unfortunately, resuming her life had not been so easy. The Ministry was, quite frankly, in tatters. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic, had all he could handle to keep a lid on the budding insurrectionists who wanted to declare total anarchy. Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour had left quite a mess indeed, and Kingsley wanted the Marvelous Three – Ron, Harry and Hermione – to be spokespeople for the Ministry, to inspire people to have another go at organised government. Seeing as they all felt a reasonable degree of trust in Kingsley's capacity to govern wizarding Britain, they agreed. It was an easy enough job – go where Kingsley says, and agree with him.

Hermione knew that Ron and Harry were grateful to be able to go more or less on auto-pilot for awhile. For awhile, she was as well. However, she soon began to worry. What was going to happen to her seventh year of schooling? Would the Ministry come up with another job for her after this one was over? Did she really want to work for the Ministry longer than she needed to? Did she want to go to university? Didn't she need to officially graduate Hogwarts to do that? Did she really want to go back to Hogwarts so soon? What did she want to do with the rest of her life, anyway?

These were all questions she pondered as she traveled with Ron and Harry all over Britain, making speeches, occasionally signing autographs and always shoving the Lifebond to the back of her mind.

It creeped up on her so slowly she didn't notice it at first. Then she attributed it to the stress of always traveling. However, after three months of not being able to sleep without a glass of wine before bed, or a Sleeping Draught, she began to wonder, but finally decided that she would wait awhile before making any decisions, abiding by her mother's old adage that it would either get better or it would get worse.

Unfortunately, it got worse. Hermione could barely sleep; when she did it was from pure exhaustion, as she refused to become dependent on either wine or Sleeping Draughts. She felt constantly anxious, never at ease – as if she were waiting for something important, like her NEWT results.

Part of her stress and anxiety she attributed to her worsening relationship with Ron. She felt as if what she thought of as their "normal" relationship got on fine – that is, their regular friendly camaraderie they had always had; however, their romantic relationship was disintegrating daily.

Ron didn't want to talk. Hermione _needed_ to talk.

She knew his reticence was because of the war. She knew he was recovering. She knew that he needed to be silent, to think. However, she needed to talk. She needed to relate. And, she privately thought, if their needs were so radically opposed, how could they work a real relationship?

Meanwhile, her ability to sleep was continually eroding, as was her anxiety and stress. One morning after three more months, she woke up very sore. She couldn't remember doing anything particularly strenuous the day before, but she shrugged it off, stretched and waited for it to pass.

A week later, her achyness was not better, but worse, and she went to the nearest Healer. According to him, there was nothing wrong with her a good Sleeping Draught wouldn't cure. After that, she decided to try her parents' physician. That was a dead end, also. Determined to find a solution to her problem, she went back to the Healer and asked him to run all manner of tests.

When she went back to talk to the Healer about her results, she had a disturbingly striking sense of déjà vu: The look on Healer Applegate's face was identical to the look that had been on the face of the Healer who had told her she may have "developed a lifebond."

"Well?" she asked, nervously.

Healer Applegate sat down slowly on the stool in front of her, his face working on a perplexed expression. After a long silence, he heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well." He sighed again and said, "There simply isn't an easy way to put this, Miss Granger. It appears that the magical properties of your blood are changing."

"What!?" Hermioned squawked. "That's impossible!"

"It certainly ought to be," agreed Healer Applegate. "Unfortunately, that's what's happening to you."

"But…but…" Hermione spluttered, "that…that…what do you mean, it's changing? Not 'changed'? Not 'might change'? It's _changing_?"

"Precisely," said the discombobulated Healer, pinching the bridge of his nose again.

"_What do you mean: it's changing?!_" Hermione demanded.

"Everybody has magical properties in their blood, which are rather similar to their DNA," explained the Healer. "They are unique to each person, just as each person's blood is also unique to them. Yours are, quite simply, changing. They do not appear to be changing into something else; you're not going to become a centaur, they appear simply to be changing into…well, a different version of _you_."

Hermione breathed in and out, gripping the edge of her seat. "Does that mean…_I'm_ going to change?" she whispered.

Healer Applegate pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he said, frankly.

_The 2__nd __Quarter_

Hermione, infuriated with the dead ends to which her search for information in the wizarding world had led to, grimly determined to make use of a magic no wizard had ever before dared to attempt – the Internet.

Her simple search for "lifebond" initiated 2.500 hits. She clicked on the Wikipedia link.

Lo and behold – The Legend of the Lifebond.

What she found there did not please her.

Her next step, she knew, must be to tell Harry and Ron – especially Ron. Unhappily, it was also the step she liked least.

_The 3__rd__ Quarter_

"A _Lifebond_? With _Snape_?" Ron cried, jumping up from his seat, his fists clenched. Harry looked too stunned to move.

Hermione sat very still. "Look, it's not like I _chose_ to form a Lifebond with Snape of all people! I didn't want this to happen!"

"Well, you didn't have to…" Ron shoved a hand through his hair.

"I didn't have to what, Ronald? Save his life? Save a good, brave man from an agonizing death?"

"You know I didn't mean that," he muttered.

Hermione sighed. "I know. Look, I…I just wanted you both to be prepared for…for whatever happens."

"It'll be all right, Hermione," Harry said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione smiled, gratefully.

_Final Quarter_

"Well, dear, and what can I help you with?"

Hermione had finally bitten the proverbial bullet and gone to her last source of help – Madam Pomfrey. They sat over cups of a very familiar spice tea by the window at the end of Poppy's sick ward. Hermione spread one hand over the smooth surface of the little oak table and said,

"Thank you for meeting with me. I wasn't sure what else to do."

Poppy waited.

"You see, I've been having health problems. Most of them are directly connected to lack of sleep…"

""Yes, I was going to ask you what in Merlin's name you were doing with yourself to have those shadows under your eyes," Poppy interrupted. "You've lost weight, too. Eat that scone, don't play with it."

"Thank you," Hermione said, dryly, but she ate the scone. "As I was saying, most of my health problems are connected directly to lack of sleep."

"Take a Sleeping Draught, dear."

"I tried that at first, and wine, but I was taking one or the other quite often, and my ability to sleep wasn't getting any better, so I stopped. I didn't want to become dependent on them, you understand."

"Hmm…yes…" Poppy sipped her tea, thoughtfully.

Hermione then went into the sordid details surrounding her information from Healer Applegate and from the Internet, expecting Poppy to gasp in horror, or at least show some sign of surprise, but contrary to expectation, Poppy simply sipped her tea, raised a brow every once in awhile, and listened.

Finally, as Hermione finished her narrative, Poppy set down her cup, sat back and said calmly, "Well, dear, it seems to me that your next step is clear."

"Please, tell me," Hermione said, her head now in her hands. "I have no idea what to do."

"It is quite apparent that you must find Severus."

Hermione started from her reverie and flicked a dried blade of grass from the knee of her jeans.

After her conversation with Poppy, the latter had given her Severus Snape's current address. He was now residing in a smallish, brick house at the top of a very large hill in Doolin, County Clare, Ireland.

Having overcome every bit of pride in her soul, Hermione now stood at the back of the house, hesitating to approach the iron gate in the brick wall. She had knocked at the door for several minutes, without an answer and she was fairly certain if she didn't see this through today, she would lose her nerve.

Finally summoning another blaze of Gryffindor courage, Hermione unfolded her arms, marched up to the gate, and through it, saw Severus Snape….sitting in the midst of a beautifully landscaped rose garden.

5


	4. In the Mind To Suffer

…In the Mind To Suffer

…In the Mind To Suffer

Chapter 3 – Part 2

Severus Snape sat in his elaborate rose garden, and breathed. He concentrated on the oxygen going into his lungs, and rushing back out. He focused on the smell of the petals wafting through the air. He pondered the feel of the breeze on his cheek.

This was his hideaway, a place where he could relax, find solace and above all – it was a place about which nobody knew. If it were ever learned that Severus Snape needed and _enjoyed_ his rose garden…he shuddered.

But everyone needed their own hideaway, their own private spot for relaxation and contemplation. He especially needed it nowadays.

It had not been a good year.

Not that, reflected Severus, many of the years which made up the sum total of his nearly forty, had been particularly good. He brushed off his thoughts of the past. Severus was not a man who enjoyed dwelling on past things.

He only liked to think of Lily.

It was both a treat and a punishment; the one he could not resist, the other he knew he deserved.

The year had been very quiet for Severus, and intentionally so. He ignored the owls from the Ministry, refusing to accept his status in society as war hero. He did not want accolades or parades; he certainly did not want to travel merrily along with "the Marvelous Three" (just the thought of that ridiculous title produced a satisfying smirk), proclaiming the gospel of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

No, he had got his legal affairs taken care of as tidily as possible, and had packed himself off to the hills of Ireland. There, he had started a small business as a private Potioneer, his credentials as one of the few Potions Masters in the western world enabling him to specialize only in the more complex, difficult, and therefore rare, potions, and to have few clients.

The rest of his time he spent reading, walking the hills and thinking. He wasn't sure when it had happened; he rather thought it had been about three months after his short, though no less distasteful, conversation with Miss Granger. He had been in the midst of an extra counter-clockwise stir in the Wolfsbane, when he realised he was stressed. He couldn't think why. Wolfsbane was a complicated Potion, but not so complicated he couldn't do it in his sleep. He was not overworked. He had nothing pressing.

Six months later, he thought about going to a Healer, but decided against it. He chose instead to rely on Occlumency until such time as greater need presented itself. Until then, he would resort to a nightcap before bed, and, not being a stranger to pain or discomfort, would muscle through that which he could not ignore.

Another three months had brought him to today. There were potions he needed to begin, but he had not been able to block the anxiety and stress the night before; consequently, it had kept him up all night, in spite of the nightcap. Therefore, he sought refuge in his rose garden, breathing their soothing properties and resolvedly emptying his mind, blocking the strain and tension which sought to beleaguer him.

"I'll be damned," he muttered, eyes closed, "if, after _everything_…I'm to be brought down by a girl."

"You…_prick_," said an astonished, disgusted voice. For one insane moment, Severus thought it was Lily's voice. Its oddly sweet and melodious tones at odds with the words it pronounced was quite typical of Lily, especially when she was talking to him. He whipped his head around, seven thousand emotions warring in him for primacy, as his orbs detected…Hermione Granger. Standing behind the iron gate.

She whipped open the gate so that it bounced off the brick wall behind her and marched towards him.

"How _dare_ you come here?!" Severus shouted, enraged at her intrusion into his sanctum. He rose wrathfully, and stormed to meet her in the middle of his normally peaceful garden.

"No! You don't get to talk," Hermione said in a low voice. She shook her finger in his face, two inches away from him. "First of all," she said, shaking, "I'm _not _a girl…anymore. I'll remind you," she blinked back a few tears, "I'm a war hero, just like yourself, who just so _happened_ to save your bloody war-hero life."

Severus, though still intensely angry, blanched.

Hermioned backed away, lowering her finger. "Yes…and…and…_and_…I'm a woman," she finished somewhat anti-climactically, turned on her heel and left.

Severus sat down again, attempting to calm himself. "Nicely handled," he muttered, smoothing his robes.

Suddenly, a jolt shot through his brain, then through his body. He must find her. And he must apologise.

"Damn."

He had searched every pub, inn, and bed&breakfast in Doolin. Granted, there were precisely two pubs, one inn and one bred&breakfast in Doolin. He sighed, exiting the last pub, bitterly wondering what in Merlin's name he was supposed to do next. He frankly resented the fact he was chasing after a girl – no, he thought resignedly – a woman, with whom he candidly did not wish to associate. However, he was compelled to apologise.

"Ah-ha," he said, stopping in his tracks, "of the wizarding kind…"

The next day, he entered the second Muggle bed&breakfast on his list – Dubhlinn House. Approaching the front desk, Severus said, "Pardon me. I am looking for a young woman. A Miss Hermione Granger." He hardly knew what to do with his hands. What was one supposed to do with them, in Muggle clothes, anyway? He missed his voluminous robe. Finally, he settled for folding his arms and raising his chin, looking down at the clerk from under his eyelids.

"Is that her, sir?"

He turned round and saw Miss Granger, poised on the middle of the stair, bags in hand, looking as though she were thinking about going back up. Finally, she pursed her lips and exhaled grimly. Coming purposefully down the stairs, she said, "Wait one moment," as she passed him, then seemed to negotiate the minutiae of her departure with the clerk.

He stood by the stair and waited, stiff as a ramrod.

A few minutes later, Miss Granger turned round, looked him in the face and said. "Well. Let us talk then, shall we?" With that, she led the way out of the door.

He followed her, slowly, at a sedate pace, to a picnic table across the small, provincial road from Gus O'Connor's pub.

After Miss Granger had positioned her bags by the table, and settled down, she folded her hands on the table and sighed, looking past Severus to the massive incline of land behind him. Severus sat sideways at the end of the bench, spine straight, as always one arm on the table, palm flat, as he turned his head slightly to examine the Muggles who milled in and out of the pub.

It was a damnably uncomfortable situation.

"Miss Granger…"

"Before you say anything," she interjected, "I must apologise. I completely lost my temper yesterday. I'm really not certain what came over me."

"You are a Gryffindor," Severus said, helpfully.

Miss Granger bit back a laugh.

"Yes, well…I just wanted…to apologise."

"If you have quite finished," Severus said smoothly, "I also…" he became uncomfortable again, "I also must…beg your pardon. If nothing else, I do owe you my life – I ought to have exhibited a greater degree of respect than I did," he finished stiffly.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Finally, Severus said in a half-exasperated tone, half-amused tone, "I suppose we should discuss why you have come to Ireland, presumably, simply to find me."

She looked uncomfortable.

Hermione was frustrated. It was just like Snape to ask such an abrupt, jarring question, without giving her any time to think or to regroup.

"I…well…I think I've been having symptoms."

"Symptoms?" Snape repeated, frowning.

Hermione told him all about her year. When she finished, he murmured, his brows knit together fiercely, "Yes…Very similar…"

"Similar to what?"

"To some…ah, 'symptoms' of my own. To a much greater degree, however."

Hermione put her head in her hands. "What are we going to do, sir?"

"I shall be fine," Snape said stiffly. "However, I do practise Occlumency." He paused, swallowed as though he were choking down a hairball and said, "How have you been?"

She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to let him know how weak she was, especially not when he seemed fine, if a little tenser even than normally. What she did want was to run far away and pretend that no man such as Snape had ever existed.

On the other hand, something deep within her marrow compelled her to tell him. There was also the logical voice in her head which never slept, telling her that things weren't going to get better without Snape's help.

Finally, she said in the calmest voice possible, yet without meeting his eyes, "I can't take it much longer."

Startled at her unequivocal statement, Snape snapped his head to look at her, penetratingly; she could feel his gaze upon her, but she couldn't meet it for more than a second.

There was another long, uncomfortable pause. Fortunately, Hermione was getting used to them.

Finally, Snape relaxed and stood up, turning to look at the hills behind him as the sun slowly sank in the sky. Turning his head over his shoulder, he asked, "Are you certain?"

"Yes," Hermione said, quietly. "If I go much longer without sleep and in this level of pain, I'll end up in St. Mungo's. I've already been to the Healer and there was nothing he could do for me besides prescribing Sleeping Draughts. I don't…" she choked a bit, "I don't know what will happen."

Snape nodded, slowly. Then, seemed to resolve himself, he said in his usual silken but commanding manner, "You shall board with me for a fortnight or so. If your condition remains the same, we shall know it is not the Lifebond. Otherwise…we must cross that bridge when we come to it."

Hermione couldn't decide if she felt more relieved or disappointed.

"Very well. I'll owl Kingsley, Ron and Harry immediately. And…thank you."

"Please don't consider it," Snape said, shortly. "I owe you my life."

Hermione rolled her eyes. " 'You're welcome' would have been sufficient."

Ignoring that, he picked up her bags and said, "Let us sort out this puzzle of our lives and see whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them."

"You know _Shakespeare_?" Hermione demanded, bewilderedly following him down the road.

5


	5. Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune 

Hermione stood still, breathing in the countrified air of the Burrow, the sweet smell of grass and the smell of Molly Weasley's baking bread. Everything was so familiar here; the always slightly overgrown garden, the house bursting with life, the garden gnomes cackling at each other in the roses, the…Was Mr. Weasley milking a cow?

"It's Dad's newest Muggle obsession," Ron said, approaching Hermione's Apparition point. "The Amish. Apparently, they're like a Muggle cult or something."

Hermione laughed as Ron took her hand. "It's hardly a cult, Ron. It's just a different way of life, that's all."

"People choosing to live in the past? Sounds like a cult to me." Ron grimaced exaggeratedly, then laughed at the expression on Hermione's face. "I'm only kidding, 'Mione," he said, then as she slowly smiled, he kissed her mouth lingeringly.

Hermione could feel her heart slowly bruising, as she tried to concentrate on the feel of the sun on her head and Ron's warm mouth on hers. Nothing was going to be the same.

"Come on," Ron said. "Mum's trying out a new recipe."

As they walked hand in hand over the sun-drenched grass to the house, Ron asked, "So, what's the emergency? The owl you sent Harry and me sounded…well, it was short. That's fairly unusual."

"Yes." Hermione gave a short laugh. "Let's wait till after supper, shall we?"

Ron shrugged. "All right."

"Hermione, Harry, we're so glad you two decided to join us," Mrs. Weasley said, hugging Hermione with one arm as she cleared her plate with the other.

"Of course," Hermione said faintly, as Harry smiled through a mouthful of steak and mashed potatoes. Her headaches had been better since she'd talked to Snape, but she was still sore all over, and almost couldn't stand even the affectionate, medium pressure Mrs. Weasley demonstrated.

"Come on, 'Mione," Ron said, standing up and reaching for her hand. Hermione took it, pausing for a moment, savoring the feel of his large hand covering her smaller one, storing it up in her memory…

As they entered Ron's old room, Harry and Hermione both stood in the doorway and looked around for a moment.

"Man…" Harry said.

"Yeah…" Hermione echoed his sentiment.

"It's been ages since we've all been in here, mate," Harry said, coming forward and plopping on Ron's bed. "Ah, home sweet home."

Ron laughed. "I know; tell me about it."

"So, Hermione," Harry said, "What's the trouble?"

Hermione gulped. "Promise me you won't kill me."

Ron and Harry exchanged a look. "We promise," they said in tandem.

"I'm sort of, uh...moving in with Snape."

The boys looked at Hermione, looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Ron…Harry!"

"I'm sorry," Harry choked, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just that's the funniest thing you ever said!" With that, their laughter redoubled.

"Harry, Ron, I'm serious!" Hermione shouted.

The laughter died a tragic death.

"What?" Ron hissed, starting forward.

"Mate…" Harry said, frowning, laying a hand on Ron's shoulder.

"I don't have a choice," Hermione trembled, choking back a few tears. "You know I've been sick – or something, whatever it's been, the last year." She paused. "I just couldn't take it anymore. I went to see Snape. He's been having some of the same symptoms. We decided to try this out, just for a fortnight or so. We'll see what happens, but…I had to do something. I can't risk…whatever might happen if my health continues to deteriorate as it has done this year." She finished her ramble by plopping on the floor and bursting into tears.

Later that night, after many more tears on Hermione's part, many protestations on Ron's part, and much silence, confusion and attempted understanding on Harry's part, the three of them trod back to the Apparition point.

"You don't have to go right away," Ron said, shortly.

"I still have to see my parents and let them know what's happening," Hermione reminded him, spiritlessly.

"Lay off her, Ron," Harry said. "It's hard enough for her as it is."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Promise you'll write?" Hermione asked them both.

Harry laughed. "You know I won't. I'll try, but you know it won't happen."

Hermione laughed. "Ron?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Hermione's smile faltered.

"Good even, Miss Granger," Severus said, stiffly, opening the front door. Taking her bags from her, he said, "Allow me to show you your chambers."

"I have chambers?" Hermione questioned, following him down the hall.

"Yes, I have prepared a few rooms for your particular use."

"Oh. Oh good…Thank you."

"Don't regard it."

"I'll take that as another 'You're welcome'," Hermione responded wryly.

"You may do so if you wish," Severus said, raising a quelling eyebrow. Just because they shared a Lifebond didn't mean that they were on terms of levity yet.

Yet? There was no yet. They would find a cure for Hermione, and for him. There would be no yet.

Would there?

Severus opened the mahogany door, and ushered her into the room. He rarely used this part of the house. As small as the house was, all he used was his own bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and library, in addition to the basement which he used to conduct his small but flourishing Potions business.

He set her bags down by the bed. "If you have need of me, I shall be in the kitchen. You should have no difficulty locating it." He bowed, gracefully - a surprising contrast to his stiff, uncomfortable manner – and exited the room.

Hermione half expected him to billow his robes behind him, but he did not. After puzzling for a moment, she set to unpacking.

She had certainly not expected her own set of rooms, she mused, and certainly nothing on this scale. She had expected a bare, extra room and – not much else.

One glance at the bedroom alone, however, made it clear that he had taken at least a modicum of effort to Transfigure a part of his house for her. The room was beautifully furnished, with large windows facing the front garden, adorned by brocade curtains. The massive mahogany sleigh bed, placed with its headboard against the windows, was covered in the softest duvet imaginable. True, the décor was almost entirely green, but as much as she would never admit it to Ron or even Harry, Hermione rather liked this shade of green and she doubted that Snape had decorated her room so beautifully just to spite her with the colour.

Having deposited the contents of her suitcases in the closet and sideboard, she ventured into the connecting bathroom.

"He didn't," she gasped.

The bathroom was beautifully lit, with sky windows, polished green and gold tinted granite surfaces and, right in the middle, a gold-lined Moroccan bathtub.

Hermione almost cried.

She wandered through the foyer and found her way into the kitchen, where Snape was preparing supper, robe discarded over the shiny, forest-green tiled counter, white sleeves of his typical collared shirt rolled up.

She sniffed the air. "Salmon for dinner, then?" she asked, quietly.

"Yes." Just as she was about to open her mouth to ask if she could help, Snape said, "There are vegetables over there which you may dice for the salad."

"Oh…Thank-ok." Hermione shot a covert glance at him as she moved to the other end of the counter to commence her dicing.

He glanced at her. "Do you always insist on wearing Muggle clothes?"

Hermione made a split second decision at that moment: if they were going to cohabit together, she couldn't treat him as a feared professor. She had to treat him like a bloody roommate.

This flashed through her mind in a nanosecond and in another nanosecond she blurted, "Do you always insist on wearing wizarding clothes?"

"Wizarding clothes are normal," Snape replied, dryly.

"So are Muggle clothes."

"Only in the Muggle world."

"You're living in a bloody Muggle house," Hermione said, calmly.

"Language, Miss Granger," Snape remarked, serenely.

Hermione froze. Had _Snape _just made a _joke_?

Severus froze. Had he just made a _joke_ to _Hermione Granger_?!

This was unacceptable.

"Ten points from Gryffindor."

Damn!

Hermione had to put down her knife because she was shaking so hard.

"Miss Granger? Are you well?"

"I – yes," she gasped, "I'm sorry, it's just – so ridiculous," she giggled.

He turned back to seasoning his salmon.

After a period of silence, Hermione said quietly, "Thank you for the room. It's quite, er…quite lovely."

"It was nothing," he replied in clipped, cool tones.

Hermione flushed in impatience. Was he utterly incapable of graciousness? She tried reminding herself of his kindness in regards to her room, but was unable to stifle her irritation.

A few minutes later, having constructed the salad, Hermione wiped her hands on her jeans and said, "I'm going to wash up. Would you call me when supper's ready?"

Without turning from his task, Snape said, "Very well."

Hermione paused uncomfortably, turned and left.

Strolling through the door connecting her bathroom and her bedroom, she yawned and tucked her towel closer round her. Mid yawn, she realised she was ravenous. She hadn't wanted to eat so badly since…about a year ago. At this realisation, she experienced an odd thing – it was as if she ought to be getting a sinking feeling, but wasn't. She ought to feel disappointed, even horrified that, somehow, against both of their wills, Snape's presence seemed to have become the only thing in her life which could relax her enough to have an appetite.

Just as she was about to drop her towel, there was a knock at the door.

"Don't come in," Hermione called.

The door opened as Snape said, "Supper is…" Eyes widening, he whipped around, exclaiming, "I thought you said 'Come in'!"

"I said '_Don't_ come in'!"

"I apologise, I…"

"Just leave!" Hermione said firmly.

Without another word, he exited the room.

Hermione pressed her hands to her cheeks.

Severus stormed out to his rose garden, came to a sudden stop and breathed in and out, clenching his fists.

He was, to be quite candid, furious; partly with himself for being fool enough to go to her room (although, what else should he have done – sent a bloody Patronus?) and partly with Miss Granger – although as he contemplated this, he realised reluctantly that he did not actually have a reason to be angry with her. Primarily, he was angry at God – if there ever were such a being. Such a truly horrifying occurrence of events should never have been allowed to happen.

He breathed once more, in and out, then turned. The salmon needed to be taken off the grill.

Hermione couldn't decide if she was more angry or humiliated. It wasn't as if he had seen anything; her towel had given her full coverage. Still, she felt exposed. She was angry at Snape for having made her feel exposed, even though she knew it wasn't his fault; he had said he had misunderstood her.

She was still angry.

Severus sat at the dark pine desk in his library, chewing his salmon. As he chewed, he slowly realised he was not thinking about salmon – he was thinking about sex.

Disgusted with himself, he spat out the formerly delicious salmon.

Severus Snape was not a man who chose to live as one ruled by his impulses. He had certainly made a few choice decisions in his youth and with the Death Eaters which he had later regretted violently, but as a rule he preferred to control his baser passions with an iron fist.

Therefore, he did not believe the peculiar stirrings taking place within him at that moment were the result of the commonly used, vulgar phrase, "It's been too long." What he believed was that he was a human male in possession of the normal, anatomical parts who had just seen a young girl in a towel, even if it was (he shuddered) Hermione Granger.

He moved to contemplate his chart of Ancient Runes, in an effort to quell the undesirable phantasms swimming through his brain. Dragging a hand over his face, he exhaled, attempting to also quell the rage, indignation and anxiety coursing through him. If there was ever a _damnable_ conundrum of a situation to be unwillingly tossed into…He snarled at his Ancient Runes chart.

As he tried to relax, he pondered taking up smoking to relieve the tension he foresaw to be ensuing in the next fortnight.

He exhaled again. This was going to be even more difficult that even his powers of cognition had foretold.

Hermione paced by her bed, twisting the sash of her bathrobe round her fingers. She was so frustrated she could feel hot, angry tears bristling behind her eyes.

It just wasn't fair! She had just undergone the most traumatic year of her life, hunting down and defeating the forces of evil and had wanted to spend a quiet year or two recuperating with Ron and Harry, then explore her secondary scholastic options – slash – job opportunities.

She had _not_ wanted to spend the rest of her life attached at the hip to Severus Snape.

"Just for a fortnight," she muttered, resuming the twisting of her sash feverishly.

Oh, who the bloody hell was she kidding? Her life was over.

She flopped on her bed and screamed into her pillow.

Perhaps, she reflected, she ought to take up smoking as a way to relieve the tension she foresaw to be ensuing in the next few weeks.

She rolled over on her back. This was going to be even more difficult than she had allowed herself to imagine.

7


	6. To Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

To Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

To Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

The next morning, Hermione awoke with a crick in her neck and the rest of her joints creaking like hundred-year-old floorboards. The damage from the Cruciatus was always at its worst immediately after she'd slept. Groaning, she realised she had fallen asleep during her cry last night, facedown on her pillow. As she rolled over and propped herself up on her elbow, she massaged her neck with her other hand. Her face felt stale from the dried tears. Half-blind, Hermione fell out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to wash her face.

Staring at her glistening face in the mirror, she dragged a towel over it, the fluffy terrycloth rubbing a little zest and colour into her formerly dull and sleepy visage. After staring at herself a while longer, she set her chin defiantly at her own reflection and ripped her half-wet curls out of its messy ponytail. In a moment, she was dressed and venturing carefully, though creakily, into the kitchen.

Severus was already there, making coffee in a large press. After glancing at her, he finished the coffee, while she stood uncomfortably in the doorway, and poured it into two large china cups, handing one to her.

"There is cream and sugar on the table," Severus said, as he moved toward said table, seating himself gracefully as he sipped his coffee. Hermione noted, as she poured milk into her own coffee, that Snape drank his black.

Settled in her armless cushioned chair, Hermione took notice of a platter of steaming scones on the table.

Seeing her eye the scones out of the corner of his eye, Severus smirked slightly and remarked, "Please, partake of as many scones as you desire, Miss Granger."

Having finished her scone and coffee, Hermione poured herself another cup and re-seated herself, eyeing Snape uneasily.

Having waited for her to finish eating, Snape put down his newspaper and said, baldly. "I am of the opinion, Miss Granger, that the worst has passed us."

She started a bit and flushed.

"Clearly, neither of us were at fault; the fates seem simply to have wanted us to suffer. I believe it would be best to put this uncomfortable situation behind us."

Hermione sat stiffly, staring into her coffee.

"If it helps, I saw nothing," he smirked, "of an incriminating nature."

Hermione glowered at him for a few seconds, but failed and started to laugh.

"Very well," she said, sighing.

"_Bon_," Snape said, silkenly and stood, Scourgifying his dishes and floating them back to their respective cupboards.

"Ehm…May I ask, ah…where you're going?" Hermione asked, timidly.

"I have a business to attend to," Snape said. "I shall be in my lab in the basement for most of the day."

"Oh…Could I help?"

Snape gazed at her penetratingly.

…6 months later…

Hermione woke from a deep slumber with a feeling of dread nestled deep in her stomach. As she pushed the lovely green duvet off herself, she stretched her morning kinks out and tried to think what it was that unsettled her so.

Sliding off the edge of the massive bed, she felt her nightgown slide back down around her thighs as her feet hit the floor. She lifted her wand from the nightstand and opened all the windows, breathing deeply the sweet Irish breeze which ruffled the thin material of her nightgown against her body.

On her way to the bathroom, Hermione's eye was caught by her wall calendar, today's date circled in a bleeding scarlet felt pen.

Oh, yes. Today was, technically, the last day of her stay.

While she felt that she and Snape had developed a sort of cool understanding over the preceding six months, she did not feel that she was at all fond of him. Yet…and yet…she felt that to leave could possibly rip her asunder. No, she wasn't precisely fond of Snape, but she did feel unbelievably comfortable and _secure_ in his presence.

She didn't want to leave, but she was pretty certain Snape would want her gone.

What was she supposed to do?

Severus Snape was not accustomed to having no idea what he was about.

One moment, Hermione Granger was an irritatingly innocent Gryffindorian chit, the next moment; she was a quiet, companionable young woman and a very capable Potions assistant who was slowly beginning to understand his own very, very dry sense of humor.

Unfortunately, she also had her own sense of humor, which again, was irritatingly innocent and Gryffindorian, though it was seasoned with her own wit and intelligence.

Today was the last day. Against his will (it seemed most things that happened nowadays were against his will), the date had become earmarked in his head, as if it were some momentous occasion.

Such a thought was ridiculous, because the day Severus needed or even wanted Hermione Granger to serve any capacity in his life, was the day –

"Oh, shut it," he snapped at his reflection witheringly and splashed his face liberally.

The fact was, he reflected bitterly, however much he craved independence and solitude, this cursed Lifebond had clearly made such a concept a thing of the past.

He would talk to Poppy. Probably, he should speak with Hermione – Miss Granger first, but he did not believe himself equal to such a taxing conversation without fortification.

"I have a few errands to run. I shall return by dinnertime."

Hermione looked up from her chair in the library, resting her thick tome on her knees. "All right."

"Very well – what are you reading?"

"Oh – it's your favourite Potions text from university."

"How did you know it was my favourite?" he asked, intrigued.

"It has the most notes. It's more worn than the others."

"How do you know the notes do not indicate it is my least favourite?" Severus challenged her.

"Your least favourite one has more crossouts."

He smirked in approval. "Tarry on, Miss Granger."

"Oh, by the way, would you mind picking up some tampons for me? My favourite brand is Witchtex, but anything will do."

"Certainly." He left.

"Witchtex, Poppy. Witchtex!"

"Dear me, Severus," Poppy remarked mildly, as the hysterical man tiraded into the infirmary where a frightened student stood receiving a pass from Madam Pomfrey.

"I refuse," Severus snarled. "I unequivocally _refuse_ to accept either the burden or the responsibility of being eternally fused to a green, irritating, know-it-all of a chit!"

"Hermione said she refuses to accept either the burden or the responsibility of being eternally fused to an emotionally constipated, sour old coot of a man," Poppy replied, dismissing the third year who scampered out of the infirmary gratefully.

"She said nothing of the sort."

"No, she didn't, but she should have." Poppy sighed. "What's all this about, Severus? What are these ravings of Witchtex?"

"She asked me to buy her tampons. What is worse, I acquiesced without a demur. It did not even occur to me how inappropriate it would be until I'd already Apparated into Hogsmeade."

"You are living with her, but buying her necessary hygienic equipment is inappropriate?"

"We are hardly 'living together' as you so salaciously put it," Severus almost sneered. "We board under one roof but occupy separate chambers."

"I would hardly say I was implying salaciousness, Severus. I was merely point out semantics."

Severus followed Poppy into her office and sat in the chair opposite her desk, sighing.

"I'm at my wit's end, Poppy," he said in a low voice. "To say truth, I'm desperate. I haven't the faintest idea what to do."

A plate of steaming food appeared on the desk before him.

""You can start by eating that."

"Poppy…"

"I know it's a losing battle, but that doesn't mean it's not worth fighting," Poppy said, primly as she put her tea on.

Severus picked up the fork and grudgingly ate.

"Severus, we've been having these little chats more or less since you first began spying for Albus. I have enjoyed and appreciated them immensely and I have always done my level best to be honest with you, However, I have never been quite as honest with you as I am about to be.

"You are, without a doubt, one of the most noble, yet flawed men I have had the privilege to know. It is because of this that I am quite fond of you, Severus."

"Poppy, please, this display of emotion…"

"Oh, Severus, do be quiet. As I was saying, if I didn't have a sincere affection for you, I would not be as forthcoming as I am about to be.

"You are being an unbearably arrogant, narrow-minded coward."

Severus choked on his buttered asparagus.

"While you and Hermione Granger undoubtedly have your differences, I shall take this opportunity to prophesy that her main fault has been associating with Harry Potter, whose main fault was being born of James Potter, whose main fault was being a thoughtless and insensitive child.

"Hermione is a first-rate young woman, and the only witch under sixty-five who can match your own considerable breadth of brain.

"The advice you have come seeking is this: Pluck up, stop whining and be a man. You have suffered. So have we all. You are not specially privileged to withdraw from the world, disdaining it. Hermione Granger could be the best thing to ever happen to you since…Well, there you are."

The muscle in Severus' jaw worked convulsively. "I see," he said, stiffly, standing up. He strode to the door and, gripping the knob tightly, paused and said, huskily, "You are undoubtedly correct. Thank you for…the advice."

"Wait, Severus. Here's a spare box of Witchtex."

"Thank you. My menstruating assistant shall be thrilled."

Hermione felt that it had been mostly a blur. Snape had come home (when had she started thinking of this place as home?) and with much hemming and hawing and stiff, uncomfortable pauses, they had somehow arrived at the decision that Hermione would remain with Snape indefinitely, working as his assistant.

She felt relieved.

She also felt that her life had ended.

This wasn't what she wanted. She wanted Ron back, but Ron wouldn't write to her, wouldn't respond to any of her own letters. Instead of warm, easy-going, goofy Ron, she had cold, stiff, implacable Snape.

She lay down on her bed, holding the tears in.

5


	7. 1000 Natural Shocks Flesh Is Heir To

The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To

The Thousand Natural Shocks That Flesh Is Heir To

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the clothes on my back.**

**15. Mittens**

**16. Church**

The next few months proved to be interesting for poor Severus. Before his fateful visit to Poppy, he and Hermione had mostly tried to stay out of each other's way, except for mealtimes and when they dealt with the records or when she helped with extra potions orders.

Now, however, in view of their long-term agreement to be roommates and employer/employee, they almost unconsciously began to develop a flow to their everyday interactions. When they worked together in the kitchen, they moved seamlessly around each other, sensing the other's rhythm. If Hermione dropped an egg, Severus caught it before it hit the floor. If Severus forgot the olive oil in a recipe, Hermione put it in.

Nothing like this had ever before been experienced by our man, Severus. While he found it fascinating from a clinical standpoint, from a personal view it alarmed him to no small degree. He had never shared any level of intimacy deeper than this. His experiences with his bastard father and weak mother had led him, extremely early on in his childhood, to the conclusion that love and intimacy were highly dangerous things. Unfortunately, he was too late in reaching that conclusion, for before he had had proper time to develop the necessary shields against such treacherous movements of the heart, Lily had swept into his life in a grand rushing of wind from which he never had been able to become entirely unruffled.

Though he had loved – still loved – Lily wildly, deeply, purely (some had said obsessively), the memory of his mother's weakness in her slavish love for his father kept him from letting Lily through the portals to the deepest parts of his soul. Sometimes, after she had forever closed herself to him on that bitter night outside the Gryffindor common room, he felt justified in his desperate measures for self-preservation. Other times, when he lay awake at night, recalling every moment in her presence, every breath taken near her and groaning under the weight of his pain, he cursed himself in every tongue he knew.

So for better or for worse, Severus, now at the brink of forty, had never experienced anything like intimacy and while his relationship with Miss Granger had not yet caused him to reveal the deepest secrets of his soul to her, or vice versa, the rhythm they now had in sensing each other's movements made Severus believe that they were communicating, if not telepathically, then worse, on a preternatural, visceral level. With deep foreboding, Severus could not imagine that this would not lead to far worse things. Perhaps they would stay up late, swathed in tissues, relating their heartfelt experiences to the other. He sneered, then whitened and grimly resolved to keep such a blasphemy against the natural order of things from ever occurring.

He vaguely wondered if Miss Granger ever worried about such nebulous things as possible emotional intimacy in the very distant future.

In fact, Miss Granger, while she did spend an appropriate amount of time devoted to pondering such things, rarely worried about them. Emotional intimacy was something with which she was quite familiar and comfortable. She even desired such things, which, if Severus had known anything about women, especially nineteen-year-old women, he would have already deduced.

No, Hermione did not worry about emotional intimacy. Hermione, in fact, was lately worrying about a somewhat different kind of closeness: just a few of the thousand natural shocks her flesh was heiress to.

She wondered if there was something wrong with her. She had gone through puberty with the rest of the girls her age, developed the extra little (or sometimes, not so little**1**) bits here and there at a reasonably average time along with the rest of them, but while Lavender and Parvati were immensely concerned about boys, and who liked whom and other such trivialities, Hermione had been immensely concerned with school, knowledge and learning everything her greedy brain could possibly absorb.

She knew _about_ sex, and the sex drive, and sex organs and where everything went, but she simply figured she was one of those women who didn't have a spectacular sex drive.

It turned out, however, she was just a late bloomer.**2**

The bloom had started around the time when she and Harry and Ron had gone in search of the Horcruxes, but she hadn't had much time to think about what was going on inside her, and indeed, she had attributed many of the odd chemical surges in her body to stress and near-death experiences. The attributions were misplaced, however. In the following couple of years, Hermione realised resignedly that she was finally developing a libido. It was very uncomfortable, and she wasn't at all sure that she liked it.

She was especially uncomfortable when she started randomly wondering what certain people looked like naked, wonderments which she immediately banished from her brain, but which left their mark on her in the form of brightly stained cheeks.

Hermione sighed. There was only one thing to do.

A few moments later she was in Severus' study, moving her eyes very carefully over every title on every shelf. She sighed exasperatedly. Severus did not appear to have any books regarding what a young girl should do when beset with an onslaught of hormones, surprisingly enough. Finally, she settled for a thick book, one of a set of encyclopedias of the human anatomy, which covered the reproductive system. Opening the book at the very first page, she sat in Severus' favourite armchair and swung her legs over the left arm.

"Interesting reading," said a deep voice, leaving a tingle at the base of Hermione's spine. She looked up.

"I suppose so," she replied. "I was curious."

"Yes, I see," Severus said, moving to his desk.

Hermione attempted to switch positions in the chair, but was foiled by a shot of pain tearing through her spine and traveling down her legs. She gasped, tears starting in her eyes.

Severus was by her in a moment. "What's wrong?" he rapped out.

Taking deep breaths and closing her eyes, she said slowly, "It's nothing…I just…leftover from the Cruciatus…My nervous system is somewhat damaged."

"Have you been to the Healer about it?"

She blinked. "Well…no. It's Dark Magic, isn't it? You can't heal Dark Magic."

He frowned, severely. "Perhaps." He paused, appearing to be thinking very hard, then said, "Are you all right now?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded, then moved, still frowning, back to his desk, where he pulled a very old-looking book out from a drawer at the bottom.

Hermione, shrugging off the incident, returned to her book. They co-existed thus quite peaceably for half an hour or so, until Hermione raised her eyes to study Severus from behind her book. Eventually, she broke the comfortable silence. "Severus?"

He looked up. "Yes?"

"I'd been meaning to tell you…my parents' last owl said they would like us to visit them over Christmas."

"Us?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"I don't think they'll like to hear no."

"Of course not," he sneered.

"Don't be like that," she snapped. "They're my parents. Respect them."

There was a heavy silence, thick with unuttered thoughts. Finally, Severus quelled his raised eyebrow and said, quietly, "Of course. I apologise."

Hermione relaxed. "Thank you. So, will you please come visit my parents with me over Christmas?"

He paused a moment, contemplating the possible purport of such a visit, then said urbanely, "Yes."

As Severus returned to perusing the volume so ancient Hermione could smell it from her chair, she started to go back to her own book, but was instead arrested by the almost ferocious intent with which he scrutinised his text. She canvassed his face, noting for the first time its contours; the angular cheekbones and sharp jaw line, the thick, straight, black brows jutting out over inky black, deep set eyes and the puissant, aquiline nose; as she watched, a long, strong, pale hand came up and rubbed the bridge of said promontory.

Hermione suddenly felt light-headed and realised it was because all the blood in her body was rushing to her pelvic region.

Sweet Merlin. This wasn't happening to her.

Sinking in her chair, she put her book over her face and whimpered. It seemed as though the world recently known by Hermione Granger was fast reaching its apocalypse.**3**

Severus had been afraid of this.

A millisecond before Hermione had cried out, he had almost done so himself, though more from shock than from pain. A twinge had run down the entire length of his spine, through each vertebra, split at the tailbone and proceeded down both legs. It was a jarring experience, like nothing which had ever happened to him before, except…

And then Miss Granger had uttered a strange cross between a gasp and a whine, his legs had carried him to her side almost before he knew what he was about and she had explained, albeit unknowingly, what had just happened to him: They were indeed communicating on a preternatural, visceral level: more so than he had dared to think possible.

Blood and soul magic be damned; he would find a way out of this. There may have been a thousand natural shocks that flesh was heir to, but he would lay his life there was nothing natural about this.

"Severus, are you coming?" Hermione called impatiently as she pulled on her mittens next to the fireplace in the library.

Tapping her foot and crossing her arms, she looked up as Severus came through the door, cloaked and booted, as though ready for a more extensive journey than that which they had planned to take through the Floo.

He swallowed noticeably. He had been thinking about this for the past month. Either he could forego his Christmas Eve tradition, or he could take Hermione along. Leaving her alone wasn't an option, as she would simply have pestered him about it, anyway, and he could no longer lie to her without experiencing considerable pain or without her simply seeing through him as though he were a picture window.

"Miss Granger…" He swallowed again, then stiffened his resolve. "Miss Granger, I know we had planned to arrive earlier than your parents expected us, as a surprise…but there is something I would first like to show you."

Severus waited for her to go through the necessary idiosyncrasies: the biting of the lip, the wrinkling of the nose, the shifting of the weight. Before she could round it off with the capstone question, however, he cut her off and said, "I wouldn't suggest it if it wasn't…important. You won't regret it."

Hermione paused. She felt as though she ought to object, as though Hermione 15 months ago, or even six months ago would have objected. Instead, it seemed the most natural thing that ever natured to trustingly take his arm as he Side-Along Apparated them.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked, her quiet voice swallowed up in the huge open space, blanketed by sheets of snow.

"The Cliffs of Moher," Severus answered, his voice disappearing as well.

Hermione stepped slowly forward, not releasing his arm. It made Severus uncomfortable that this didn't make him uncomfortable.

Looking back at him suddenly, wonder and delicious excitement colouring her face, she opened her mouth, but looked as though she couldn't say anything.

As much as he hated to admit it, he had been worried about sharing this with her. It was something he had done every year on Christmas Eve, for as long as he could remember. He hadn't been sure if sharing it with someone else would be too unbearably personal or not. Hermione's happiness, though, somehow created a safety net for him. Her evident delight filled him with confidence.

He strode forward, toward the edge of the annually disintegrating rock.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, tagging along just behind him, still holding the crook of his arm.

"I am striding manfully to the edge, Miss Granger, as should be obvious to you, considering our proximity."

"But what if you fall?" He knew the tone. She was going to start asking questions. Nagging questions.

"I won't fall."

"What if _I_ fall?"

"I shall catch you."

To his surprise, that seemed to be enough for her. She happily skipped along to his strides until they reached the barrier. Severus lifted her onto it, then climbed over quickly. Taking her arm again, they trod softly to the edge.

"You do this often?"

"Every year," he uttered his words succinctly, hoping his tone would discourage further questions regarding the Potions Master's sentimental habits.

"Why?"

He pursed his lips, his sane self warring with his new, spill-everything-to-Hermione-Granger self.

"This was a mistake," he muttered, under his breath. "Come, then," he said aloud, "your parents await."

As they turned, though, Hermione said, "Wait." She had stopped in her tracks; he pivoted forty-five degrees, utilising his bat of the dungeons, penetrating stare. He suddenly felt trapped and wanted only to get out as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, his bat of the dungeons, penetrating stare seemed to no longer have the desired effect on Miss Granger. Indeed, she barely seemed to notice it at all. Instead, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, in spite of the cold – wait. Pleasure?

He had pleased her?

_He_ had pleased her? Nonsense…

Nonsense.

"Professor?" She still called him Professor. He wasn't her Professor, anymore, but still, that was what she had called him for six years; he supposed it seemed a shame to her to stop now. Unless, of course, she were annoyed with him or taking him to task; in which cases she used his first name.

Shaking himself, he answered her. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

She blushed. "I would like to show you something, too."

He groaned inwardly, but, not knowing how to refuse (and as much as he hated to admit it, he desired to avoid hurting her feelings), he merely inclined his head, almost imperceptibly, and said, "Very well, Miss Granger."

_No doubt swaths of tissues are forthcoming_, he thought sourly.

Hermione couldn't believe she wanted to show Severus Snape where some of her happiest, most joyful memories had taken place. She thought she might be going insane, but it was only just. He had shared something with her which was clearly personal, and though she had some misgivings, it was only right that she reciprocate.

She sighed inwardly. Sometimes she cursed her Gryffindor spirit.

_Curse the Gryffindor spirit,_ Severus thought, as they Apparated onto a curvy black road, striped by slush and snow. There was a bright building ahead of them, people toasting each other on the porches outside, cheery music emanating from the inside.

He looked at Miss Granger sharply. "This is a Muggle place," he stated.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "We're in Bunratty. That's Durty Nellie's."

He sneered.

Checking to make sure no one was watching, Miss Granger discomfited Severus greatly by wordlessly Transfiguring his robe into an overcoat.

"Come on," she said, softly. "It's beautiful. My parents used to take me here every Christmas when I was a little girl. Before Hogwarts."

Reluctantly, he followed her.

Once inside, Severus quickly ordered a Guinness, partly to have something in his hand that wasn't his wand, partly to take the edge off. Miss Granger, much to his surprise, ordered a Smithwick's.

"Come here," she instructed him. "The music sessions are always over here."

He followed her to the right of the bar, where an eclectic assortment of musicians sat, engaged in a lively session.

Miss Granger fearlessly wove through the bodies standing around and sat next to a middle aged woman playing a flute, sipping her Smithwick's contentedly.

Suddenly Severus felt acutely uncomfortable. He had got rid of Spinner's End and removed to Ireland for the solitude of the lonely, untamed hills, not so he could hobnob with the friendly Irish folk. Cursing the forethought which had prompted him to develop an antidote to deadly snake venom, he downed half of his thick foamy beer in ten seconds. Glancing around, he made his way around the corner, ten feet away from the musicians and Miss Granger. Feeling more or less comfortable in his relative seclusion, he proceeded to drink the rest of his beer in peace.

Or so was his intention until an old gentleman sat down beside him, groaning slightly under the weight of the massive accordion he held.

"I trust I'm not disturbin' ye," the old man said, laying to rest by his feet the creakily ancient accordion. "'Tis always like this on t'eve before Christmas. All t'e folk in Bunratty like a pint and a song…" the old man, sighed happily, then started. "Oh! Where are me manners at? Sean Hamish," he said, extending a hand.

Severus was certain that he had been exuding as unfriendly a vibe as he could muster in his depressed state, and was about to tell the blighter to take himself off, when he realised this expulsory urge rose out of habit – he didn't actually _want_ to bark at the man to leave. The vitriolic words died in his mouth.

"Severus," he responded neutrally, shaking the man's hand.

Such a small gesture…now Severus felt as though his world had been turned on its end once more. When was the last time he had shaken someone's hand? When was the last time he had merely shaken someone's hand in cordial, respectful, casual greeting? Ordinary men enjoyed this small contact, this small exchange of pleasantries daily without pause. For Severus, it almost brought tears to his eyes.

_Hermione Granger could be the best thing to happen to you since…_

"Not from 'round here, are ye?"

"I hail from England, yes."

"Ah, t'at explains t'e sour expression on your face."

Severus smirked.

"Ah, truly, I'm sorry," Sean Hamish said ruefully. "Me wife has tried to cure me o' my wayward tongue, but me tongue wants none of it. Come, let me buy y'a pint."

"Thank you," Severus said, blinking, as the old gentleman handed him a dripping pint of beer a few minutes later.

"My pleasure. So, what brings ye to Durty Nellie's? Ye're not a regular, I take it?"

Severus was about to answer him, when the instruments stopped and the ensuing applause died, distracting him.

"Who's got a song to share?" shouted a man playing a bahdon.

A voice then rose, acapella. Severus realised it was Hermione. He kept his face carefully passive as he suddenly found himself listening intently.

Her voice was not precisely beautiful, nor trained. Yet it held a rich, sweet, wistful quality that reminded him of someone he had known…Suddenly, he felt a lump in his chest.

"That girl you hear over there. A former pupil," Severus finally responded, sneering bitterly at himself.

The old man paused, giving Severus a calculating glance. "Ye know," he began, rolling up the sleeves of his knit, kelly green shirt, "it's nights like t'ese t'hat remind me of a trut' me wife taught me." Relaxing against the back of his chair, he took a long draught of his Guinness.

Finally, Severus decided to take the bait. "And that is?'

"It's t'e people in yer life t'at count."

"Indeed." Severus knit his brows, the corners of his mouth turning down.

"It doesn't even matter how much you like 'em. Each person has a soul wort' respectin' and lovin'. Each person you meet can bring you closer to yer understandin' of God, and so doing, enriches, builds up, fills yer own soul, makin' you a proper human being.

"A wise woman, is my Mary."

0o0o0o0

"Professor," Hermione said softly, as she brought a large glass of brandy to him in his favourite library chair, his legs stretched out before the fire. After handing it to him, she curled up by the foot of the chair and continued, "I wanted to thank you for being so kind to my parents. They feel so much better about my – our – situation."

"I was hardly kind," he said, stiffly.

"You were for you," she said with an amused smile, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the cushion.

Severus regarded the lion's mane beside his knee and felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to lay his hand on her head, as one would do a faithful golden retriever. Overcoming, as he always overcame his compulsions, he tuned in to what Hermione was saying.

"My parents are very wise, perceptive people. They could tell you were being kind."

At a loss for anything to say, Severus swallowed his brandy.

"Anyway…I just wanted to thank you for a lovely Christmas."

"No thanks are necessary."

She suddenly twisted around to balance on her knees and face him. "Just say 'you're welcome'. I dare you."

A reprimand was on the tip of his tongue…but he was caught by her steadfast gaze…the warmth of the expression in her sweet, honeyed brown eyes…

0o0o0o0

Hermione thought she might drown in the blackness of his gaze…she suddenly felt the increasingly familiar flip flop in her stomach and the heat that flowed in all directions from it. Tearing herself away, a severe blush mounting in her cheeks, she murmured a hasty "Good night" and half-ran to her rooms.

An hour later, ensconced in her huge, soft bed with a book, there was a knock at the door. Sinking down into the bedclothes, as if they would protect her, she called warily, "Come in."

Severus entered. After a strained pause, he said, "I have been working on a potion."

"Yes?" Hermione prompted him. "And?" _This is new for you?_

He pulled a small phial from the pocket of his robe and came slowly forward, saying, "When I discovered you were suffering from Cruciatus residue in your nervous system, I began researching ancient homeopathic medicines and tried combining them with variations of Dark Magic repellants."

Towering over her, he handed her the phial. She smoothed her thumb over it, reading the handwritten label: "HGCR: #33".

Dumbstruck, it was a few moments before she found her voice. "You've made 32 trials before this one?"

"Number 33 is also a trial; however, I believe it will prove to be beneficial. We won't know until you try it. Inform me of the effects after a week or so, and if needed, we will try again."

Much to her astonishment, she felt tears burgeoning; she blinked them back, desperately. "Thank you," she said, shakily.

"For Merlin's sake, Miss Granger, compose yourself. There is nothing to be thankful for."

"_Will_ you just say, 'you're welcome'?" she snapped, causing one tear to fall over the edge.

He turned and pausing by her door, added, "I have also deemed it wise to begin research on a remedy to our situation. We will start the day after tomorrow at the regular time."

"But…I…" she trailed off, her remarks falling uselessly on a closing door.

**A/N: **

**1. None of this is meant to be funny. If it is, then it is, that's fine. My goal in these few passages is not to be dirty or sly or tongue-in-cheek, but to be completely honest, sometimes bold-facedly blunt. I feel that sex and growing into your sexuality is something that needs to be fundamentally taken seriously. That doesn't mean we should never laugh at it, it just means that we should take it and each other seriously and have an earnest understanding of each other at the outset.**

**2. Hermione's sexual growth is based almost entirely on my own experience, for several reasons. I wanted her to experience the weird stirrings that happen to every girl at some point, sooner or later, in both Hermione's and my cases, later. Every girl, obviously is going to have differing experiences, but since I'm so new to this thing, I knew it would be best just to write from my own experiences. (This is absolutely NOT to say that Hermione is based on me; just these experiences.) Also, it is a manner of catharsis for me personally, a way to work through things I still don't entirely understand or know how to deal with. Hermione seems virginal enough to be the perfect scapegoat. ;)**

**3. Get excited, sports fans! Is Hermione developing feelings for our man, Severus, or is this just the beginning of a beginning of a beginning?**

**Questions, complaints, concrit? Drop me a line, I always respond! P.S. Review: It's the right thing to do.**

16


	8. To Die, To Sleep

To Die, To Sleep

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the clothes on my back. And Sean Hamish.**

**17. Pig**

**18. Secret Meeting**

**ETA: In my negligence, I forgot to make sure that Severus' and Hermione's ages were keeping in accordance with the timeline that I have going. Originally, I had Hermione say she was nineteen, but when she states her age it is December. Therefore, she would have already turned twenty. My bad. Also, why didn't they celebrate her birthday? At the time, their relationship was still very tentative and precarious; I don't think Hermione would have felt comfortable celebrating it with Severus, or even telling him, as though she were looking for attention. **

_**Warning: Potentially squickable material.**_

"So we are agreed," said the rough, husky voice. "The target must be taken out New Year's Eve."

The four men huddled together in the thickest area of the woods, their black cloaks rustling as they shifted, attempting to warm themselves during this, their final secret rendezvous before their first big mission.

"Rowle, you have _all_ the schedules?"

"Yes," Rowle grumbled.

"Good. Everything must be perfect. That is all, gentlemen. Until we meet again for our first project."

Putting their wands together, the four tips sizzled as they said, their voices conjoined, "The Golden Trio will pay."

0o0o0o0

Severus looked up from his own impeccable dicing to covertly watch Hermione as she carefully stirred the bubbling liquid in one of the older No. 4 cauldrons. Her form appeared to be holding; he doubted he would have to take over for her for another fifteen minutes or so: while her strength was improving, it was not yet equal to the task of stirring one of the longer-brewing potions.

She reached up to tuck a wayward spiral back into her bun, which was already frizzing out around her head like a halo. Careful not to disturb her rhythm, she wiped a bead of sweat off her small straight nose, just keeping it from dripping off and ruining a month's work. Severus smiled slightly. She was getting much better about that.

She looked uncomfortably hot, Severus mused. He would have to make sure she imbibed plenty of cold water during their break, he thought as he regarded the flush in her cheeks. Very smoothly contoured cheeks, they were. Indeed, her features were remarkably even. How had he always thought of her as, if not plain, then uninteresting? Her mouth was perfectly curved, the bottom lip just a touch too full, the only imperfection in her otherwise symmetrical face. Her eyes were wide and well-lashed, and set at a reasonable distance from each other. Her forehead was neither too large, nor too small. She could wear bangs if she wanted to, Severus thought, though she certainly didn't need them. Her jaw, also was very fine, neither too sharp, nor too broad, the planes connecting in a firm chin which supported her full lipped mouth very well. Too, her neck was long, slender and graceful; in truth it looked too fragile to hold up her appalling hair.

In addition to the heat already in her face from the steaming cauldron, an extra tinge of red began slowly to creep up her cheeks and spread to her (perfectly shell-shaped) ears and neck. She had become conscious of his gaze.

Damn. Damn damn damn.

Refusing to behave as though his hand had been caught in the proverbial cookie jar (though, in fact, it had), he calmly resumed dicing.

What the hell was wrong with him?

During their fifteen minute break from the hot, stuffy lab, Severus poured two glasses of icy cold water and shoved one into Hermione's hand. He was determined not to give her any reason to think he admired her. Because he didn't.

Not seeming to notice that he had almost spilled the water down her T-shirt, Hermione said, seating herself at the table and fanning her face, "Well, I think the new LGS potion is coming along very nicely. I was extra careful stirring it today. It ought to be ready for bottling tomorrow."

"Perhaps," he sneered.

She blinked, and he could see the knot forming in her throat where she was fighting back words and angry, hurt feelings. Silently, she gulped down her water.

He forced another glass on her. She took it absent-mindedly.

"Professor, when will I be able to brew a potion by myself?"

"Probably never," he said, ruthlessly.

There was a long, painful pause, while her mouth hung open.

Unable to stop himself, he continued, "A mind saturated so long in the Gryffindor idiocy and clumsiness will most likely never be fit for anything subtler than battle and Quidditch. No matter how much of my blood it may have imbibed."

She stood up, and he just caught the shine of tears as she turned and walked to her rooms, saying as she left in a voice wobbly though clearly trying to be even, "I have a headache. I'll be lying down the rest of the afternoon."

0o0o0o0

Damn it all! He threw his glass into the fireplace in his library, where it shattered very satisfactorily. Waving his wand clumsily, he ignited a much larger fire than he had intended; the flames roaring to life. He strode to the window and slapped the flats of his palms against the panes, staring out at the mocking noonday sun. Swearing again, he flung the heavy winter curtains closed, plunging the room into darkness, save for the roaring fire.

Grabbing the decanter of brandy from his desk, he ripped the top off and threw it also into the fire. Sneering at himself, he said to the fire, "Yes, I do bloody well plan to get roaring pissed at noon. It's about time, too." With that, he knelt rather anti-climactically to the thick carpet and sipped the brandy.

"Truly," he murmured morosely, staring into the fire, unblinking. "Everything I touch turns to dust."

The deeper he drank, the deeper he sank into regret. If only he could change the past…he would never have become a Death Eater. He snorted, choking a little on his brandy in the process. Wiping his nose and mouth clumsily, he took another long pull. No, he would never have become a Death Eater. Not knowing what he knew now. Not at the cost of losing Lily. He growled to avoid sobbing, taking yet another desperate swallow. Not at the cost of killing his best friend. He choked, remembering… "_And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?"_

_"You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation."_

He had both loved and hated Albus for giving him…a way out. A way out of the guilt for another death. So many deaths he was responsible for, either directly or indirectly, but it was all the same, wasn't it? Was standing by and letting Bertha be killed any better than mustering up the hate to power the curse which had ended Dumbledore's life?

But the remembrances didn't stop there…

His earliest memory was of both intensely longing for his father's love, approbation, respect and friendship and vehemently despising and loathing him, of taking blows meant for his mother and subsequent blows meant solely for him. When he found he had a means of fighting back, even if he couldn't always control it, he used it. He spent hours practising, harnessing what he would later come to find was magic, a practise which, had he but known it, would stand him in great stead in later years. It was the beginning of the greatest self-control and thence, the greatest Occlumentic skill known to the modern wizarding world.

He exulted in his newfound defence, using it to protect his mother. When he discovered his gift was shared by his mother, but not used by her to protect either herself, or him, it was the last of his hope in people until he met Lily. Unfortunately, Lily, while ultimately the inspiration for his nobility, was not enough to restore his faith. It was up to Albus Dumbledore to plant those seeds.

By the time he made it to Hogwarts, he was the veritable poster child of neglect. Lucius Malfoy, the older, wiser prefect, however, saw beyond the small, almost ridiculously bat-like child in over-large shabby robes, to his enormous, burgeoning talent and control. He took him under his wing. What Severus had thought at the time to be the only blessing God had ever bestowed on him (if such a Being had ever existed - if He didn't, it was surely to spite Severus), proved to be the Devil's own blueprint.

If Severus bore distinctive features in manhood, as a child he had looked positively weird. He was shunned by most everybody for looking weird, for frankly being weird and for being Slytherin. Lucius, and the friends Severus made through him, provided acceptance from boys his own age. When he was introduced to Tom Riddle, he'd thought it was exactly what he'd needed – a father. A mentor. Approval. Affirmation.

"The more fool I," Severus half-growled, half-yelled at the unoffending flames.

He inched closer to the fire.

He had hurt her. He had _meant_ to hurt her. Simply to shield himself from a moment of vulnerability. He was truly damnable. As the paradoxically soggy burn rose in his chest, he tucked his head to his knees and gasped.

"No one should ever have to be shackled to such a broken creature. Especially not her."

Standing up a bit too fast, he stumbled backwards, righted himself, then staggered towards the potions lab. He ought to be able to avoid any tendons and major arteries.

Granted, he was drunk. But he didn't really care.

0o0o0o0

Hermione lifted her face from her soggy pillow and dragged her feet to the mirror. Lifting a soft, folded handkerchief from the dressing table, she began to pat her face dry.

"Bastard," she whispered, the epithet making her feel mildly better.

She had felt him gazing at her earlier. She had flushed heavily, wondering what imperfections he was finding to scorn, either in her appearance or in her stirring technique. Then, trying to brave through that, she had thought to make some mildly amusing chit-chat during the break before lunch, and…the lump rose again in her throat as she wiped fresh tears away. She hated how sensitive she was.

"You're a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake," she told her reflection, exasperatedly.

The truth was, she wanted his approval desperately. She had always wanted it. He was the only professor at Hogwarts to ever not give it to her. He was undoubtedly the most brilliant Potions Master in several centuries and one of the few existing in the western world. This caused her to positively run herself ragged her first few years in Potions. After second year, however, she gave it up, albeit reluctantly, as a bad job. She would have to settle for Minerva McGonagall's and Filius Flitwick's praise.

Once she'd gleaned some of Severus' own talent, however, she'd thought…maybe, _finally_…

She pursed her lips, shaking her head violently, as if to expel the pathetic thoughts. "Get over it, Hermione," she told herself, sternly and proceeded to the loo to splash her face with cold water.

Cold water and her face, however, were not to meet that day. Halfway across the room, Hermione's left forearm began to throb. Startled, she grasped her wrist, examining her perfectly smooth, healthy looking dermis. She paused, confused, gazing blankly ahead, then slowly began moving to the door. Opening it, she broke into a run, sliding across the kitchen floor, flinging open the door to the lab and clambering down the stairs to find one Severus Snape, a small sharp knife in his right hand, dexterously slicing out what remained of his Dark Mark.

Hermione paused, horrified. There was blood…_everywhere_. Bits of carven flesh lay twitching, scattered across the stainless steel table.

Severus, without turning his attention from his task, said through gritted teeth, "Burn the remains."

"But...but you…"

"_Burn them!_ NOW!"

Hermione quickly grabbed one of the smaller iron cauldrons and reached for the first lump of twitching Dark Magicked flesh, unthinkingly reaching into his blood…

_The children screamed as his fellow cloaked and masked Death Eaters laughed loudly. Rowle kept his wand trained on their small heads, forcing their eyes to stay open as Crabbe Crucio'd a man in Ministry robes, and Goyle violated a woman with no robes, holding her legs over his shoulders, thumping her back on the cold ground._

_"Melissa," the woman cried, "Freddie…I love you. Your father loves you…"_

_Her voice was cut off, however; Goyle slit her throat slowly as he reached his climax. _

_Hermione thought she was going to throw up when Lucius touched her shoulder and said, "Severus, it's your turn to cast the Mark."_

_Her face remained impassive, save for a slight smirk, even as her stomach roiled and tears burned somewhere deep behind her eyes. "Morsmordre," she said, her strong voice sounding foreign to her ears._

"Burn them, girl!"

Hermione's knees buckled, but she grabbed the rest of the former pieces of Severus, tossed them in the bucket and quickly set fire to them with her wand.

She turned to him, the knife buried deep in his forearm, sweat beading his forehead. "Professor, you've got to stop," she protested.

He cut out one more slice, which Hermione grabbed –

_"Do you love me, Severus?"_

_Hermione knelt and kissed the robe of Lord Voldemort, then kissed his claw-like toes. "Yes, my lord. Of course." She made her voice break. "Must you ask?"_

_"Oh, yes, Severus. I fear I do not trust you as much as I would like. Fortunately, I have devised a way to remedy this…"_

_"Anything, my lord. Anything."_

_"Lucius?"_

_The platinum-haired wizard brought out a young girl of about fifteen. She didn't struggle, oddly enough. She looked Voldemort directly in his red eyes, her face crumpling in a mix of disdain and pity. "I'm not afraid of you," she said, softly._

_"You, Mudblood, have no need to be afraid of me." She cocked her head at him. "It is dear Severus you must fear."_

_The blood in Hermione's veins went still._

_Then Voldemort's high, cold voice said simply, "Kill her for me, Severus."_

_Without a blink, Hermione stepped forward, saying calmly, "Avada Kedavra."_

When she came to again, Severus was carving out the last of his forearm. Quickly, she gathered the rest of the carnage and burned it.

"Professor," she said, shakily as tears streamed down her face, "tell me you have Blood Replenishing Potion on hand."

Severus nodded his head to a small bottle, letting the knife clatter to the floor, resting his flayed arm limply on the table. Hermione grabbed it. There was only half a bottle left. She tipped it down his throat. "Professor…Professor, listen to me!" she snapped, as his head nodded. She held his head and said, leaning her face close to his, "Did we ship all of our Blood Replenishing Potion to Madam Pomfrey?"

He nodded, limply.

Her voice shook as she ground out between her teeth, "You _daft prick_!"

With that, she Disapparated them both.

0o0o0o0

White-faced and wanting to vomit – but she couldn't, because she'd already vomited everything in her stomach – Hermione waited in Madam Pomfrey's cozy office, pacing slowly. She was too anxious to sit, but her stomach was still too tender to pace quickly.

Eventually, Madam Pomfrey entered, closing the door quietly behind her. Meeting Hermione's tired, worried gaze for a moment, she then closed her eyes and leaned against the door, sighing heavily.

There was a long moment of silence, in which it seemed to Hermione that the ticks of the grandfather clock echoed resoundingly through the room. Finally, Hermione asked in a small voice, "How is he?"

Poppy wiped her brow, coming forward wearily to her desk. "He'll live." She lowered herself to the chair, the effects of rheumatism in her joints evident. "Again." Placing her forehead on the base of her hand, "Severus has more lives…"

"I don't think he was trying to…"

"No. Not that hard, anyway."

"Professor…he…doesn't want to die."

Poppy gazed at her for a moment, then relaxed back into the chair. "Do you have any idea what caused him to do this to himself? Has anything changed recently?"

"We've both changed a fraction every day, I suppose," Hermione began wearily. "But there haven't been any drastic changes…except…well, I suppose this morning, but…"

"What happened this morning?"

Hermione perched on Poppy's side of the desk, facing her. "We've been getting on rather well lately. Quietly, but amicably enough. Neither of us has a strong affection for the other, but I think…I believed there was a mutual, if grudging on his side, respect. Then this morning he scrutinised me for the better part of half an hour, then…before lunch he said some…he said…cruel things. I went to my room and maybe three quarters of an hour later, felt a premonition and found him…" she trailed off.

"I see," Poppy said, finally.

Hermione shifted. "May I see him?"

"Yes, I think that would be best."

Choosing to overlook the cryptic statement for the time being, Hermione exited the cozy office and entered the stark, long room full of hospital beds, the one at the far end containing a Severus Snape who seemed somehow thinner even than normally. Hermione attributed it to his blood loss.

"You fool," she said, gently to the practically comatose man as she sat down in the comfy chair Madam Pomfrey had placed near his bed for her. Filled with confidence during his slumber, she reached out and placed his right hand on her left, stroking it softly with her other. She shuddered as tears seemed to fill her being. "What would I have done if you had managed to kill yourself, you fool? You bastard? You _blockhead_?" Replacing his hand, she bent to rest her head by his shoulder and sighed, shudderingly. Her voice muffled, she said, "I have something to tell you." She sat up again. "I wish you would wake up, so I could." After a pause and with voice trembling, she continued, "Although, perhaps you might receive it better in your sleep, anyway, so here it is:…I forgive you."

"Firstly, I forgive you for saying those nasty things to me today. I have deduced from following circumstances that you had things on your mind and probably didn't really mean them.

"Secondly…Well, something happened, Professor. Yes, I know, how astute am I, the woman you chose to be your apprentice. When I touched your blood, I found myself experiencing one of your memories, not as an observer, but as _you_. Well, it happened twice, actually," she choked on the fluids accumulating in her face, "so I experienced two different memories. And of all the memories for me to experience…I was there with you during two of what have probably been some of the worst things to ever happen to you…some of the worst things you've ever had to do." Her voice broke, then she resumed.

"This is what puzzled me at first, Professor: Why those memories? Why not boring memories of a classroom? Or memories of Order meetings? Why the darkest moments a person could imagine? I have several theories by the way, but we can talk about those later. My ultimate conclusion is that I think I was meant to see those things, because…because they give me the courage and the capacity to…to…

"I forgive you, Professor.

"I forgive you for all the horrible things you've ever had to do for the sake of the war. I forgive you for killing that brave, blonde girl. I forgive you for smiling while the Death Eaters – those pigs - maimed people's souls. I forgive you for killing Dumbledore.

"I don't know what my forgiveness for all these things can do. What I _hope_ it can do…I hope you will finally exonerate yourself. You've paid your fair share of dues.

"I know, I'm only nineteen (almost twenty!) and what do I know of paying dues? That's the point, Professor. I'm linked with you now. What I didn't glean from your memories, I gleaned from your blood in my veins. I know you better than anyone, now, I think. I know your regret. I know why you nearly de-limbed yourself today."

She sniffled. "As the Muggles say, it all "clicked" for me, just this afternoon."

0o0o0o0

Severus Snape was not asleep. Nor had he been since Hermione had sat down beside him. He had merely been resting his eyes, but when his apprentice had approached, he deemed it better for her to think he was asleep, than to deal with whatever questions she might have.

He also didn't think he could face her.

However, she started talking…and soon he couldn't think of anything but that he must keep his eyes closed so that she would keep talking. Beautiful words of forgiveness…

The dichotomy Severus Snape lived with always reared again.

_She forgave him!_

She _forgave_ him? Who the hell did she think she was? How was her forgiveness supposed to mitigate years of murder, poison, torture, betrayal and double play?

_She forgave him._

Even if she did, what did it matter? What did it matter that he had one person's forgiveness?

_It mattered infinitely. It mattered that of all people, _she_ forgave him._

He felt tears leaking from under his eyelids.

"No," he said, making his voice hard as stone to compensate for the weakness.

"Professor?" Hermione was surprised.

"You don't know all of it."

She sat silent and reached for his well hand again. He snatched it away from her, finally opening his eyes and meeting her gaze.

"I created the spell, Sectumsempra."

"Yes, I know," Hermione responded, perplexed. Why was he telling her information to which she was already privy?

"I _created_ that spell before you were born. I was sixteen. My heart was full of dark things, disgusting things. I joined the Death Eaters shortly thereafter. Tom Riddle _wanted_ me because of my dark talents."

"Professor…" Hermione grabbed his hand and grasped it tightly, refusing to let go, "I _know_."

Madam Pomfrey and Minerva McGonagall rushed out of the office and toward them both.

"Hermione, Minerva just Floo'd in…" Poppy said breathlessly.

"Hermione…" Minerva said, approaching her slowly. "It's your parents."

**A/N: Soo…I'm pretty sure I deserve some reviews for an eleven-page update. I'm just sayin'. **

**Questions, complaints, concrit? Drop me a line, I always respond!**

15


	9. To Sleep Perchance To Dream

To Sleep: Perchance to Dream

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the clothes on my back. And Sean Hamish.**

**19. Black eyes**

**20. Night wind**

**ETA: I edited Chapter 8.**

"Hermione, it's your parents."

Hermione could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen Minerva McGonagall cry. When she did, it usually meant there was a forthcoming apocalypse.

"Professor…_what about my parents?_"

"There's been an attack…the renegade Death Eaters…"

Hermione was sprinting out of the room before McGonagall could finish her sentence.

0o0o0o0

By the time she arrived at her parents' house, Aurors had already cleaned up most of the mess.

She stood immobile on the edge of the lawn, gripping the flag on the mailbox.

As she drank in the sight of witches and wizards garbed in Ministry robes filing in and out of the house, Obliviators gathering gawkers in the distance and floating quills scribbling hastily on pieces of parchment she wondered if she'd ever felt _quite_ this way before. She felt as though her brain was calmly gathering supplies, preparing for a terrible storm.

"Perhaps," she mused, "perhaps they're all right. Maybe the Aurors got here in time. There are so many Ministry workers because of the number of dead Death Eaters."

Minerva McGonagall's misty eyes rose in her mind.

Her brain continued in its preparations.

Her movements, as she made her way through the busy, babbling Ministry employees, felt surreal. Each step was heavier, though more numb, than any she had ever taken.

She entered the house.

"Mum?" she called.

There was no one in the foyer.

"Mum?"

No one in the kitchen.

"Dad?"

The loo and dining room were empty.

"_Mummy_?"

0o0o0o0

"Poppy," Severus met her eyes with all the force behind his black gaze which he could muster, "remove your hands from my person."

Poppy pursed her lips, but took her hands from Severus' shoulders, allowing him to sit up the rest of the way.

Slowly, he stood up, cradling his arm. "My wand. And robes."

Minerva interjected, "Severus, you must rest."

"They're in the office, Severus, but…"

Severus gestured, his wand and robes flying out to him. "I must go to Hermione."

The two elderly witches stood side by side, glancing at each other.

"It appears you must," Minerva said.

0o0o0o0

Severus Snape, ex- Death Eater, former member of the Order of the Phoenix, triple agent between Albus Dumbledore and the fallen Lord Voldemort, now embarked upon the single most terrifying adventure of his life and all because of one single element: hope.

At first, Severus could not at all account for the strange lightness of being he felt, because it was so at odds with Hermione's sorrow and the sorrow he felt on her behalf (he could not tell where one ended and the other began). Somewhere in his search for Hermione – he rather thought it was between her house and St. Mungo's – he finally realised it was hope.

With Voldemort there was certainly never hope; a lust for power there was, certainly, then later only hate and determination. With Albus, there had been work. Work for redemption, for peace, though Severus had been grateful for it.

Thus, Severus set out on the single most terrifying adventure of his life.

For what was he hoping, anyway? A wave of fear washed over him at the question, images of Hermione rising in the corners of his mind.

_She forgave him._

_Forgiveness doesn't mean acceptance._

_It's a start._

_All this time spent shutting others out, just to let her in?_

"It's time," he muttered.

Perhaps the Severus of nearly two years ago would have martyred himself into a lonely and early grave. In fact, before his situation with Hermione – Miss Granger – that was exactly what he had been doing. However, the Severus with a bit of Hermione's magical blood properties…found himself either not able to fight his fondness and gratitude towards her, or unwilling to. He was not yet certain which it was, but in either case, he was done playing the fool - what good was precious dignity if it helped nothing, created nothing, loved nothing?

Smirking wryly, Severus thought he must thank Sean Hamish sometime.

0o0o0o0

She was not at St. Mungo's. Neither had she been at the scene of the crime, though he knew she had been there; the Aurors had told him of the wild scene she had created. He stiffened at the thought, feeling his vision cloud darkly. He shook it off. Empathy for Hermione was not going to help her. Not yet. First he must find her.

He was directed to St. Mungo's; the Aurors again had instructed him thither. Apparently, the Ministry was still as full of incompetent lightweights as ever it had been, because she was not there, nor did it appear that she had ever checked in.

He scoured the house in Doolin for her, but it was despondently empty.

He searched the pub in Bunratty, but again, she was not there.

He doubted she would go back to Hogwarts. There was one last place his powers of deduction were capable of figuring, then his resources would be exhausted.

0o0o0o0

Hermione stood in the cold night wind staring at the abyss in front of her. Slowly, she dragged her toe along the edge of the cliff, a few ragged stones and clumps of dirt scraping off, never to be seen again. Her knees buckled, sending more debris over the edge. Lowering her limbs gingerly, she sat on the precipice, staring down at the dark water, crashing. The waves were so far away; their sound hardly reached her ears.

Perhaps she was merely dreaming this whole thing anyway.

She began to rock a bit, attempting to excise the pain in her body.

For some pains, there are no words.

For some pains, there is no capacity.

For some pains, Hermione mused in quiet desperation, perhaps there is only release.

This pain was rather like a replacement organ, whose tissue was incompatible with her body. It was being rejected.

Hermione convulsed again, her brows knitting together. Still, there were no tears. What good were tears? Tears would not make her stop hurting. Neither would they wash away the visions of her parents' twisted, desecrated bodies.

If she kept staring at the dark, crashing water, so many kilometers away, perhaps it would keep the atoms of herself from exploding, from rejecting each other, like the bad organ.

If she were to get closer to the water…to join the water…the pain would stop. However, she also would not be able to make her parents' killers suffer…

Her thoughts were then disrupted by the only welcome voice in the universe.

"I know what you're thinking."

Tilting her head back, she let the deep, dulcet tones wash through her, a healing balm, the only restorative she could accept at this point.

She didn't respond.

"Miss Gra – "

She felt him approach, kneel beside her, then speak softly in her ear, "Hermione."

If only he would keep talking…if only his sound would continue to minister through her, perhaps she would be able to move again. Already, she could feel her muscles relaxing.

"Hermione, the Cliffs of Moher have seen too much injury. Do not add to its memories."

She managed to jerk her shoulder a bit towards him, which was incentive enough for him to rise, grasp her from behind by the shoulders and lift her up, turning her to face him.

She looked up, half wild, half-numb, and looked…and looked…and looked…his eyes were black…deep…soft…velvet…if his voice was balm, his eyes cushioned her.

"You musn't go to that place, Hermione," he urged her, holding her in the vise of his arms. "You are untainted. You have not committed an act of concentrated evil."

She looked confusedly at him.  
"Revenge is never as sweet as one thinks it to be," he murmured, softly, as he slowly raised her just enough so that her toes lifted off the ground, and moved backward, away from the steep edge. "Neither is death. I ought to know," he laughed, grimly.

"But…" the word came out from her throat breathily, harshly.

"Our souls have mingled, Hermione," he vociferated firmly. Then, softer, "Your pure one has given relief to my tired, grey one." He paused and she thought she might have seen the glisten of a tear forming. "Never kill, Hermione. Never if you can help it."

She paused, clinging to his sturdiness, his velvet voice. "Take me home," she whispered.

0o0o0o0

After they side-along Apparated back to the house in Doolin, Severus prepared to set her down on the doorstep, when Hermione whispered, pathetically, "Please don't leave me alone tonight."

Pausing, hardly knowing what he was about, Severus merely scooped her up in both arms and carried her into the library, where he would sit with her as long as she needed. "I won't."

7


	10. Ay, There's The Rub

Ay, There's the Rub

**21. Owl**

**22. Hate**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the clothes on my back.**

Not for the first time, Severus found himself silently asking, "_What the hell is happening to me?_"

While Hermione showered off the grime of the most traumatising day of her life (which, Severus sneered unhappily to himself, was saying something), he had gone to the kitchen to make them some tea, dosing hers liberally with sweet rum. After taking Poppy's Pain Potion for his arm, he levitated the rummed up tea into the library, where he stoked the fire into a comforting, crackling blaze. He settled himself into his favourite armchair with his teacup and stared morosely into the fire.

Soon Hermione came slowly into the room; her wet curls about two inches longer than normally and dripping onto her thick terrycloth robe. As she sat on the worn, soft green rug close to the fire, Severus got up from his chair to fetch her tea from his desk. Handing it to her, gazing at the damp curls already beginning to frizz and glow golden chestnut by the firelight, two very strange things happened at once: a warm feeling surged, filling his chest with something akin to protectiveness and he thought, "_My little lioness._"

It was then that he thought, "_What the hell is happening to me?_"

He was in over his head and that was the long and the short of it.

He knelt by her, proffering the teacup. Taking the steaming drink, Hermione whispered, "Thank you," and sipped it. Though her voice and demeanour struggled under the weight of grief, she yet managed to lift an eyebrow and ask, "What did you put in this?"

"Rum," was all he felt competent to say in reply.

She gave a slight snort, which Severus understood was meant to pass for a laugh, and gazed peripherally at him. A small smirk graced her lips and she whispered, "You spiked my tea, Professor? _Honestly_."

Severus was so surprised to hear a phrase he had not heard her utter since Hogwarts days, he barked out a laugh. Moving to the sofa which faced the fireplace, he said, as he seated himself, "I thought perhaps a relaxant would not go amiss. However, if you don't want it…"

"No, that's fine," she said softly, her voice heavy again, her shoulders sagging.

He _ached_ for her. He, Severus Snape, bastard extraordinaire, the soulless, irredeemable one, ached for this girl who now carried pain, who had witnessed her parents minutes after their grisly double demise, this young, irritating Gryffindor…lioness. Severus Snape did not feel sympathy, did not _empathise_ with _anyone_, unless their name were Lily Potter, nee Evans.

Unless their name was Lily…

_Hermione Granger could be the best thing to happen to you since…_

He shook his head so hard that he wrenched his neck. He reached his good hand up to massage it.

Hermione, now that her hair was half-dry and floating about her willy-nilly, unrestrained by any products or ties, judged it best to rise from her seat on the floor, and join him on the sofa, downing the rest of her rum and tea as she went.

"More, please." Severus obligingly poured more hot liquid in her cup.

He settled more comfortably into his corner of the green sofa, sipping his own sweet drink. He looked over at Hermione, who was slurping noisily, two large tears painting tracks down her well-contoured cheeks.

"Hermione," he said, helplessly, reaching out an unsure hand to her. Slurping the last of her refill, she set the teacup on the rug and turned to him, not seeming to notice his hand, which fell back to his side. Her eyes, normally so expressive, now seemed mute, even as they issued forth their droplets.

He was powerless. There was nothing he could do to assuage the agony of the girl who was now part of him…He started. Yes, he mused, as he gazed into a pair of deep and overflowing eyes, he was done resisting it. It had taken two years, but he finally accepted it: She was a part of him.

Looking back in later years, Severus decided that this had been his pivotal moment. If he had not arrived at this belated acceptance of events, he would not then have realised he was not quite powerless – there was, in fact, one comfort he could give her.

One moment, he was agonizingly unsure what to do, the next moment, he had closed the space between them on the sofa and gathered her to himself, holding her tightly, in spite of his lame appendage.

Hermione was only surprised for the space of a moment, then maneuvered herself more firmly onto his lap, tucked her face more comfortably into the cradle between his neck and shoulder, and proceeded to cry properly – in huge, gusting, snotty sobs.

Severus could barely make out how he felt. Well, awful – that was certain. But also…rather wonderful. Holding Hermione, comforting her, giving her something made him feel something good that he hadn't felt…perhaps ever. She _needed_ him.

He felt like a man.

Tightening his arms around his little lioness, Severus inhaled a large, wonderful breath – and realised she smelled like heaven.

0o0o0o0

A few more cups of the delicious, spicy rum and tea later, Hermione lolled her head on Severus' shoulder, arms crossed over her stomach.

Severus felt very awkward, but was not ready to go back into git mode. Considering the matter, he thought perhaps he could make it through this night (though it was fast turning to morning) and then reclaim his dignity.

Until then, he would give Hermione all that he could to help her – debatably, the first good thing he'd done in his life that wasn't motivated by the combination of the love and guilt he felt for Lily.

Fortunately, Hermione spoke at that moment, which distracted him from distinctly uncomfortable self-ponderings:

"I'm sorry," she murmured, tipsily nuzzling her face closer into the comfortable spot between his neck and shoulder.

"Hermione…there is nothing…for which you need to apologize."

"I've ruined your New Year's." She groaned. "Oh, and I've ruined your birthday, too!"

Severus felt a small smirk loosening his lips.

"First of all, Hermione, I do not blame you for ruining my New Year's."

You don't?"

"No. I blame the Death Eaters for ruining my New Year's."

She snorted and put her hands on her face as she shook with watery laughter.

"Also, how do you know the date of my birth and why is it now ruined?"

"Because I was going to make you a cake and your favourite meal and now I'll be too busy with the funeral and the house and the insurance company and dealing with the neighbors…oh, and there's a short dossier of all the faculty members in the Hogwarts information they give to Muggleborns."

"Ah…you know, Hermione…if you need assistance with the details of your…your…"

"Parent's deaths?"

"Er…Yes…I am, of course, at your service."

"Thank you." With that, she promptly was wracked with sobs yet again as she clutched at his shirt.

Several minutes later, Hermione peeled herself off of a much wetter Severus and wiped her face with the edge of her robe.

"When is your birthday?" he asked her, curiously, simultaneously marveling at the changes wrought within him – if you had asked him even a year ago if he would ever feel the inclination to know the date of Miss Granger's birthday, his only response would have been a derisive snort.

"September 19."

He frowned. "You never told me."

"No. I didn't. Professor…I've been meaning to ask for a long time…"

"Yes?"

"Why do I suffer from Cruciatus residue and you don't?"

"I suffer from overexposure; my muscles and joints are more frequently achy, but only slightly. You suffer from an allergic reaction."

"Oh. Yes, of course. I suppose I should have known that."

"Does the potion continue to be adequately efficacious?"

"Yes, more than adequate, thank you."

He hesitated, then returned to their previous discussion. "You would be then…twenty-one?"

"Yes."

He stared into the fire, absent-mindedly stroking Hermione's wild hair with one hand and drumming idly the fingers of his other on the armrest. "You're so young…" he said, softly.

"So are you. Technically."

He craned his head to look at her disbelievingly.

"Well, the average wizard lives to just under 200. You're barely middle-aged."

He had opened his mouth to reply, when she continued, "Most of the time you don't feel much older than I am." He snorted. "Other times it feels as though you're older than Nicholas Flamel."

Severus hardly knew what to say.

0o0o0o0

She had been growing gradually tenser over the past twenty minutes. Soon, she was worrying her full under-lip, and fidgeting almost neurotically. Handing her another rum filled teacup, which was impatiently rejected, Severus asked her, "What is the matter?" Immediately, he chastised himself angrily for such a Gryffindor question, but Hermione didn't seem to notice. She barely glanced at him as she rose and went to the fireplace, touching one hand to the brick mantle, and stared into the flames. Her features twisted into a grimace so unfamiliar to the visage of Hermione Granger that Severus repeated his question, inanity be damned. "Hermione," he said, sharply, "what is the matter?"

"_I…hate…them_," she hissed.

He stood up, preparing for the worst. He hadn't expected her to come to this stage of grief so quickly. "Hermione," he said, lowering his voice silkily, calmingly, but was interrupted by her strangled moan. Or was it a growl? It ceased to matter which it was when he saw every muscle in her arms, back and legs bunch up painfully as she lowered herself slowly to her knees. She was slowly getting closer to the fire. He took a few small steps forward, planning to edge his way closer.

His plan was defenestrated, however, as soon as he saw her stretch a hand out to the burning logs. With reflexes born of his tenure as spy/Potions teacher, he was by her in an instant, on one knee, grasping her outstretched wrist and opposite shoulder, forcing her back. He feared he would hurt her, but cared more about not letting her hurt herself.

Hermione let out a mewling, frustrated cry and struggled against him for a few moments. Severus received her kicks and blows, patiently at first, as he constrained her bucking and flying limbs. Finally, he snapped, "Hermione! That is _enough of this!_" He slapped her cheek lightly, enough to sting, though not to damage.

She paused, as though struck with a full Body-Bind. Then she blinked, a tear running down her flushed cheek. Recovering, she narrowed her eyes and hissed, "I'm going to _kill_ them. I'm going to _hurt_ them. I'm going to hurt them just like they – hurt – MY – PARENTS; LET GO OF ME!"

As she seemed in no danger of hurting herself, Severus let her go and stood up, giving her a few feet of space.

"Miss Granger," he said softly, "what benefit will you reap from hurting those men?"

"It's justice," she said, her voice muffled, as her face was turned into the carpet.

"No," he said sharply. "It is revenge. Which, as desirable as it may be, is _not_ justice. Revenge will never taste as sweetly in reality as it does in the imagination. Given my experience, I must request you to cede your judgment to my own in this instance."

Slowly but surely, he watched as her muscles relaxed, one by one, bit by bit.

"You would know," her muffled voice said, darkly.

He stiffened.

She continued: "You killed Dumbledore." She looked up, her features not accusatory, but pained and questioning. "How were you able to do it?"

"I had to," he said through gritted teeth. After a tense pause, in which he struggled between feelings of indignation and this new, damnable tenderness, he said, "Dumbledore provided both my salvation and a reminder of my damnation. Yes, you may well say the two things are contradictory; but that is my purgatory. I was…am…never certain if, at the last, I shall be saved or damned. If my good works will outweigh the evil I have done…the evil I feel…in me." He growled in defence of his vulnerability, shocked at his own words and stalked behind his desk to look out the window at the darkness of the moon. A large owl, silhouetted against the moon, flapped once and soared against the wind. "What would it be like to live a simple life?" he wondered out loud. "Conscienceless like that owl?"

"It would be a bit better," Hermione said, still curled up on the floor by the fire, "but infinitely worse."

He turned to her, unaware how deeply his black, shining gaze penetrated her. "You may be correct."

**A/N: I am not promoting getting drunk or tipsy as a good means to deal with grief. I think that Severus would probably think it was a good idea for Hermione to have a "relaxant" or five, enough to get her buzzed, though not drunk, which is probably how he's dealt with a lot of the pain he's been the recipient of during his Death Eater/spy days.**


	11. In That Sleep of Death

In That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come

**I own nothing but the clothes on my back.**

**23. Peace**

**24. Chocolate covered strawberries**

Eventually, Hermione drifted into a fitful doze. Severus longed to give her a dose of Dreamless Sleep, but feared to interrupt her brain's natural process of stress relief. In lieu of this, he chose instead to levitate her crumpled form from the carpet in front of the fireplace to the soft bed in her quarters.

After disposing her thus, and covering her with the bedclothes, Severus felt unsure of his next action. Should he simply leave? His own quarters were considerably removed from hers, a situation he had originally intended, but now considered inconvenient: What if she had a nightmare and should awake to a dark, empty room? What if she awoke and, being alone, thought that he had chosen to get rid of her?

Finally, he considered that this new man he was turning into (the one who was determined to humiliate and subjugate himself to the lowest degradations conceivable), would simply be very loath indeed to parting so far from her on this night. Not only did she (as incredible as it may have seemed) _need_ him, but he seemed, in the last 48 hours, to have grown quite addicted to being needed by her.

Therefore, he tugged off his boots, undid his waistcoat, took one of Hermione's blankets, and settled himself in the large chair across the room, to be on the watch for what dreams might come in that large four-poster.

0o0o0o0

In what frame of mind shall one say Hermione awoke? For those who are intimate with grief, and the shock of loss, a description can hardly be necessary. For those who are not, words on a page will be only that: words.

Words, words, words.

Who can tell what Hermione's emotions were upon awaking? It could be conjectured that there were too many things happening in her cerebrum to be distinguishable from one another.

In truth, her first sensation during consciousness was that heavy, suffocating grief.

Following feelings were: relief – when she propped herself up on one elbow and perceived Severus snoring softly in her chair; gratitude, when she saw how uncomfortable he must have been –on more than one level.

As Hermione slid from under the bedclothes, and padded softly across the room she reflected on how odd such a situation should have been.

It should have been. It should have been odd. Here was a Gryffindor, a female, a twenty-year-old, approaching a Slytherin, a male, a forty-year-old. Two people who, for the majority of their acquaintance, had had less than amicable interaction, when interaction had even existed at all.

Thus it was with some slight - very slight - feeling of trepidation that Hermione, being compelled across the room towards her former professor, sank down and rested her head against his knees.

He stirred.

Her gaze ventured upward.

Without opening his eyes, he placed one hand on her hair. He left it there for one solid minute.

"I shall make us breakfast. Put on your robe and come to the kitchen."

Hermione smiled peacefully and nodded.

0o0o0o0

Later, when she entered the kitchen, she was greeted by the sight and smell of chocolate-covered strawberries. Mingled with the scent of strong, brewing coffee, it overtook Hermione's senses for a moment. She stopped in her tracks and breathed in the flavors. When she opened her eyes, Severus stood in front of her, barefoot, still clad in his rumpled trousers and waistcoat from the night before, proffering a cup and saucer expectantly.

"Oh, dear," Hermione lightly touched his injured arm, "your arm…you shouldn't have slept in my chair last night, with your arm in this sling. Very foolish, Professor."

"When you have obtained a degree from medical school, I shall be interested in your opinion of my ailments. Take your coffee, Hermione."

The use of her Christian name both pleasantly surprised her and took the sting out of his sardonic words.

Taking the cup and saucer from him, she seated herself in one of the chairs around the table and slowly slurped the steaming coffee, letting the scent bloom over her face. Severus set the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries in front of her and she immediately selected the likeliest looking one.

Severus observed Hermione as she ate.

A solemn, introverted individual, whose life had largely been devoted to secrets, spying and plots, Severus had had few friends through the years and fewer close friends. Hence, he was not commonly inclined to think about what others might be feeling. If he did happen to be so inclined, it certainly would not have been in the direction of a twenty-year-old former student of Gryffindor.

Severus was forced to conclude that something had changed in him last night. It was something more drastic than the small changes which had been steadily occurring over the past year and a half. Or perhaps it was simply that all the small changes had come to head last night, resulting in this morning's confusion.

Cupping his hands around his own coffee, Severus seated himself next to Hermione, amusedly observing the chocolate fervor of his young witch. He lost his smile when Hermione suddenly set her cup back down in its saucer shakily, bowed her head so that her hair covered her face and began weeping. She tried to be quiet, but every so often a wet snuffle was heard.

Severus was alarmed. "Hermione…"

Hermione did not appear to hear him.

"Hermione, you… you… please, really… your coffee is getting cold…"

Hermione was, again, responseless.

"Hermione, come now… please…" She was crying again. Crying. Again. He had had enough of that last night. He had barely known how to handle it then, when she had seemed content to let him do nothing but serve as a crying cushion. Now… now they were at breakfast, for Merlin's sake. Granted, it was a trifle irregular, there being chocolate-covered strawberries, but he had only been trying to make her happier, to lift her spirits. Instead, she was now dripping salt water into her coffee he had carefully brewed.

Severus was feeling pretty ill-used, when Hermione's shoulders shook once more. Mentally cursing himself for a cad, he took her hand before he quite knew what he was doing.

He was not prepared for the consequences.

0o0o0o0

For a few moments, Hermione was not positive what had happened. Her hand felt unexpectedly warm, and then the nerves in her fingers and palm were singing. She looked up at Severus, who was merely subjecting her to his black, fathomless gaze. The singing spread quickly all over her body, until she felt, for a moment, as though there were a thin sheath of sparkle just under her skin.

0o0o0o0

At first, Severus noticed how warm and soft her hand was and how it seemed peculiarly fitted to his own, the dips and curves of each appendage moulding to the other.

The second thing he noticed was the quiet. Hermione had stopped crying. Her hair still covered her face yet her body had turned infinitesimally to him. Feeling suddenly positive of his next action, he raised their two hands, bringing his free one to join them.

Turning the remaining few degrees toward Severus, Hermione slowly raised her head, letting her wild, bushy hair fall away from her face. Her eyes were puffy and red and her face was splotched with tear tracks. Severus felt something unfamiliar stir in his gut.

He looked down, then glanced back up. Hermione was slowly leaning forward, centimeter by centimeter. What was she doing? Was he leaning forward as well? Their faces were getting closer. What the bloody hell was going on?!

Whatever they were trying to do, they were unsuccessful in the attempt, for it was at that moment the doorbell rang.

After freezing for a moment, Hermione took a breath and, wiping her face, went to answer the door. Severus exhaled softly and took refuge in his coffee, that is, until he heard a high-pitched exclamation from the foyer.

"Harry!"

7


End file.
